Stag v07 n02 [1956-02]

soox sonus: A FLESH PEDDLER IS DEAD @

The 10,000
PARTY GIRLS of MUNIC

Use the Knife -

(A Savage Arctic Adventure) —

GAIN MORE WEIGHT

IN 10 DAYS OR YOUR MONEY BACK!

m / LOOK AT

NOM

As be seen with him!

OF THE WAY THE
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You/

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February, 1956

I'M THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.......... Michael Patrick O'Bri.
TRUE ADVENTURE i couldn't prove who I was. ART. e

"SAVE HIM—OR SHARE HIS GRAVE!".......... Dr. Ruland Sykerly 26
If I failed, it would mean two lives—his and mine.

TRAIN DELAYED . . . MAYBE FOREVER. ....... Ronald M. Cleary
We were sealed in the Donner Pass.

THEY WATCHED ME SWIM AWAY......... Capt. Calvin H. Burns
I was the only one with a chance to make it.

| HAD TO SCUTTLE MYSELF. ........................ Ed Fisher 36
In 10 minutes I'd suffocate, in 15 | would freeze.

HE HAD TO USE THE KNIFE....... DOLO IULII IIS Eddie Toolu
His arm kept plunging into the white bear's neck.

CRIME and EXPOSÉ THECA FARTY icu) OF MUNICH.............. Philip Nelson 11
: "MY WIFE IS MISSING!"..................000- Lyle J. Campbell 18

What happened to the lieutenant's bride?

THE GIRL WHO PLAYED INDIAN. ........ A STAG Picture Feature
FRENCH LOVE..........ccccccccccscece A STAG Cartoon Feature

HOW I MADE A MILLION................ 0c cece eee Earl Muntz
The story of a "madman."

KEEP AWAY FROM THE BLONDE................ Charles Vindex

Two men on the run—and a girl.

OFF-TRAIL

= Em M A FLESH PEDDLER IS DEAD.................... Robert J. Levin
BOOK BONUS à Max the Shark's murder busted an international sin racket apart.

ON THE -STAG LINE. 7. ero noon eee esee eie
DEPARTMENTS STAG'S MEDICAL MEMO................ esee Roger Stirling 8

G is published

oos Ys SECOND NOAH SARLAT MONROE FROEHLICH, Jr. MEL BLUM
CLASS MAIL Editorial Director Business Manager Art Director
LER. AUTHORIZED

AT N)
Additional entry at CHI- MARV KARP K. T. MEYER
CA! ILLINOI - Executive Editor Managing Editor
MAGAZINE CORP., 655

Madison Avenue, New
uM Um Associate Editors: P. H. NORWORTH, V. A. JIRSA, R. F. GALLAGHER

0. 5i
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———————————————————————————————————————————D

Director Midwest West Coast
SID KALISH WILLIAM R. STEWART LOYD B. CHAPPELL
4655 Madison —Avenve, 3$ South Clinton Street, 810 5o. Robertson
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nt

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whole

CHARLES ATLAS, Dept. 1402
115 East 23rd St., New York 10, N. Y.

Send me—absolutely FREE-—a copy of your f:
Health es, Strength" 37 7 pas ERO

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For over a century, Donner
Pass has been killing people.

The snow-swept gateway to
California keeps defying the world's
best engineers, who have been break-
ing their backs to reduce the death
toll. A couple of years ago it held
the crack streamliner City of San
Francisco in its icy grasp for three
days. On page 28 one of the passen-
gers on this ill-fated trip tells his
story, ^. . . Train Delayed . . . May-
be Forever . . ."

But the grasp was broken, though
all the passengers didn't realize it. It
was broken by a combination of old-
fashioned newspaper ingenuity and the
blizzard-defying courage of two expert
skiers.

The skiers were holed up comfort-
ably in Nyack Lodge, a resort in Emi-
grant Gap, when the lodge proprietor,
Hersten Jones, got a long distance call
from Long Island, New York. It was
10 p.m. on the third night of the pas-
sengers’ ordeal. The phone call was
from the managing editor of Newsday,
Alan Hathaway, who had learned that
Nassau County Executive J. Russel
Sprague was aboard the stranded train.

Hathaway asked Jones whether it
would be possible to get expert skiers
to make the hazardous night trip to
the train with a list of questions to be
asked of Sprague.

“I don't know," said Jones. “It’s
still snowing here and it would be a
rough trip to make at night. But I'll
see if I can find someone."

This call had been made on the last
telephone line remaining open into the
snow-covered Sierra Nevadas. It was
another hour before communications
between the East Coast and the lodge
were re-established. The list of ques-
tions was then relayed to two skiing
daredevils, Alex MacKenzie and Mel-
vin Slave, and by 12 midnight, local
time, they had started out on their
trip. Rough, indeed, but the paper

ADDDDAD AL

| m4

had promised pretty good
pay.

Jones told Hathaway,
when the skiers left, that
the 11-mile round trip
would probably take four
hours, but, as it developed
later, it took four hours
just to reach the train.

At 6:30 a.m. Jones called
Newsday to report that the
skiers had not yet returned,
but he had found a man
who had just returned from
the first mercy mission to
reach the train. Luigi Barbieri was
one of the veteran mountain men who
volunteered to carry food to the ice-
bound streamliner. Barbieri told a re-
write man over the phone what things
were like for the stranded passengers,
and while he was talking, MacKenzie
and Slave turned up at the lodge.

Both MacKenzie and Slave live in
the rugged mountains the year round,
and they said they had never seen such
heavy snows. There was so much snow
around the train, MacKenzie said, that
he didn't see how they would ever get
it clear. But the snowplow was chug-
ging along steadily, and had only
been a mile and a half from its goal

when the skiers started their trek back
from the train.

HE rest of the story is one of dicta-

tion over long distance phones, type-
writers rattling and copy boys running
from editorial offices to composing
room as each page of the interview was
finished, so that the paper could get on
the streets with a national beat.

As a matter of fact, this was not
only a beat, but a scoop, which is
much rarer, being exclusive news that
the opposition papers have to pick up
from the victor. A beat merely means
that a paper has managed to get on
the street with the news ahead of its
opponents.

Who says that the days of adventure
in the newspaper business are over? It
looks pretty lively to us when a local
county paper can scoop the great New
York Times and all the press services.

OR the last year, we’ve been polling

readers to find out what we can do
to improve STAG. Even before all the
tallies were counted, one thing came
through: MORE CARTOONS! You'll
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this issue. **9

"You'll be happy to know, dear, that this is one time
your worst suspicions were true."

ARE YOU TOO OLD
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not at all, scientists say

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develop ulcers. Latest

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tensions leading to ulcers. J Just as im- -

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ITCHY FEET—It’s not true,
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tendency of your feet to accumulate
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powder, inserting lamb's wool between

EE
GI ULCERS—Join the gA P

8E --——

by Roger Stirling

toes and washing feet with non-alka- IS TB DOOMED?—With uncanny
line soapless detergents are all good

protective measures.

DEPRESSING DIET—fFeeling lazy
and disagreeable? Maybe it’s because
you're not getting enough to eat. A

7
$
Z
Z
7

(
o

well-known Spanish authority on nu-
trition tested a batch of healthy young
men, serving them only 1,000 calories
a day—2,500 below normal. Then the
men were subjected to such light ac-
tivity as walking a treadmill. After
three weeks, the men were depressed
e not at all interested in work or
ood.

advanced cases, Nes Mg

WHAT CAUSES A DRIP—These
winter months, you—and many thou-
sands of other men—may be suffering
from that annoying, uncomfortable
condition known as postnasal drip.
This is an accumulation of thick, vis-
cous mucus just above your soft pal-
ate which you swallow unconsciously.
It results from something that's
gone haywire with your nasal physi-
ology. Among the various factors caus-
ing your drip, says a Massachusetts
nose-and-throat specialist, are over-
heated and under-humidified offices and
homes, usually during mid-winter.
Dryness in the air increases the mucus
content of your nasal secretions. Emo-
tional upsets, endocrine, metabolic
and dietary factors also may stimulate
postnasal drip. Since the origins are so
varied, treatment is difficult and no
one remedy is effective for all patients.

gists say. aude cd gri
tures E des E

NOTAT ALL! | DIDNT KNOW
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10,000

| Party Girls
of Munich

STORY STARTS ON NEXT PAGE >

a a

From “coffee-break” morning clients to the last late strollers, Munich’s streetwalkers don’t miss a bet in their 24-hour trade.

one e

M ee E ES Pie Be ae

Tight-sweatered, hip-swinging queens of the streets are clogging up

the sidewalks and bars in a frantic fight to earn enough to live on.

by PHILIP NELSON

BP The sleek white rat crawled along the prostitute’s
Pp arm in the Munch café-bar, nipping the girl play-
s fully. With a practiced movement, she jerked her
hand, flipping Hansi down to her elbow. The prostitute’s
pet began to climb her arm again in a repetition of the
scene.

The girl, a licensed seller of her own flesh, is one of an
estimated total of 10,000 professional and amateur prosti-
tutes that prey on U.S. servicemen in Munich, keeping
American MPs and the German vice squad busy around
the clock.

She and her Teutonic sisters have changed this ordinar-
ily placid, beer-loving home of storied Gemütlichkeit into
a new sin city of the Western world.

Shockingly, there is also one American girl—victim of
a broken love affair with a U.S. soldier—who has turned
to prostitution in Munich.

This café and several dozen similar bars flash their
neons every night, beckoning the GI inside for 25-cent
bottle beer and women whose prices range from arrogant
Carmen’s $12.50 an hour to tired Honnelore’s $2.50 a
night—less if she has no other prospect in view.

Like a growth of fever blisters clustered around a fester-

ing sore, Munich’s “GI bars” trail out from the city’s main
railway station in three directions.

Eye-catching and garish, with English-language signs
proclaiming “Dancing Tonight” and “Hostesses Inside,”
the bars lure the all-GI clientele through their doors into
a smoke-jammed atmosphere rocking with the tumult of
shrill voices and blaring juke-box music. Most notorious
are the dens of Goethe Street, named—or misnamed—for
the great German poet.

Sweatered, hip-swinging queens of the streets, hundreds
of them on this one street alone, openly stalk potential
customers, shrilling the accumulated vulgarity of two lan-
guages. The “inside” girls jerk provocatively from table to
table shouting for some one to “buy me a drink" and “take
me home, honey, I’m tired.” Here, the bare facts of life
are discussed in the barest manner possible.

The street is fast becoming as legendary as Hamburg’s
Herbert Street, the Marseilles waterfront and the Via
Roma in Naples. s

Recently this district near Munich's railroad station so
shocked a visiting English cleryman that he denounced the
area as reminiscent of the notorious fleshpots of Port Said,
London's Piccadilly Circus and the Place Pigalle in Paris.

The clergyman, the Reverened Bernard Croft, writing
in the weekly Church of England newspaper, declared he
had seen in the Munich railway station district “dozens of

CONTINUED ON PAGE 14

girls.

“better-class”

The area of concentrated sin-peddling around the railroad station keeps MPs and the local vice squad alertly on their toes.

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The Coca Cola signs look homey and American, but the gin
mills real attraction for young soldiers is not so sweet.

The 10,000 PARTY GIRLS OF MUNICH continued

hard-drinking spots full of GIs and the women of the
streets.” He said that “on any evening drunks of both
sexes abound."

The Reverend Croft went on to say: “Two things are
especially noticeable about these GIs. One, their extreme
youth: I asked what was the minimum age for this over-
seas tour of theirs and was told 17—and they looked it,
and acted like it.

“The other thing is,” the Church of England vicar con-
tinued, “to what a fine art their military police have
brought the practise of turning a blind eye."-

He said one group of drunken young American soldiers
bawling the song *God Bless America" on the sidewalk
“drew no more than a friendly greeting from a passing
patrol of MPs. y

“Apparently,” the Rev. thundered in conclusion, “a GI
over there today has to be actually engaged in an affray
with knives or be committing rape on the sidewalks to draw
any corrective attention."

Not so, roared an indignant answer back from U.S.
Chaplain (Capt.) Francis A. Knight, of the 5th Infantry
Division.

“I have never seén an instance when it might be said
American soldiers are running wild," Chaplain Knight de-
clared.

The chaplain said there was no basis for comparison
between the Munich railroad station district and the flesh-
pots of Egypt, Britain and France. “I have been in the
Munich station area many, many times at night and I have
never found anything that would, in any way, prevent my
being a gentleman."

Chaplain Knight added that the picture was drastically
exaggerated by the English vicar.

Inside the bars, the girls plunk themselves on GI laps,
chiseling drinks and shrilly drumming up after-hours trade.

If, as Chaplain Knight suggests, the picture is exag-
gerated, the fact remains that prostitutes openly solicit
Americans in the railroad station and clutter both en-
trances to the U.S. waiting room. And, 100 yards from the
station, a U.S. serviceman can purchase pornographic lit-
erature and marijuana cigarettes from most of the pro-
fessional prostitutes and the washroom attendants in the
Goethe Street bars.

In Munich, a man bent on sin can fulfill his desires on
as grand and diverse a scale as in any city in the world.

On the front page of the local tabloid a few months ago,
blaring red-type headlines announced the suicide of the
chief of the Munich vice squad. Jokers around town said
the job was enough to drive any man to his death.

This same newspaper, incidentally, was fined $750, by a
German court for exposing the city's sin-ridden night life in
a series of sensational articles. While the court did not
question the accurate appraisal of the sordid picture of
Munich after dark, it nevertheless levied the fine against
the paper for printing articles *dangerous to the morals of
youth."

The paper paid the fine and ran a cartoon of a blind-
folded Lady Justice holding à scale balanced in favor of
sin over truth. The caption said: “To do wrong is not evil
—only to write about it!”

The spectacle of sin chasing the GI is not a new one for
American military officials in Germany. Since the trium-
phant sweep of Allied armies across the European conti-
nent 10 years ago, sin has been the first and most persistent
camp follower of occupation.

Army officials in Munich are not complacent. MPs do
patrol the city constantly, functioning smoothly when it is
a matter of breaking up a fight (Continued on page 78)

Aiming at the fat dollar.
the night clubs feature

"7 “exotic

‘lingerie shows,
beauty dancers” and *Ameri-

can-style strip teasers.”

lm the Man
from N

by MICHAEL PATRICK O’BRIEN

as told to Stephen Masterson

The bridge to Hong Kong and freedom was just
100 feet away from’ my hiding place. I crouched
7 under the boxcar on the railroad siding and
watched the prisoners about to be released. In another
moment they would walk with Red Cross aides across the
railroad bridge, and the rain that was pouring down in the
driving typhoon would mean nothing to them because they
were on their way to freedom—while I crouched, hunted
and harried like an animal. A
If I made a running break for it, I knew I would be shot
down, and if the bridge guards gave any explanation at all
to the British at the other end, it would simply be that a
criminal had escaped jail. But if I could mix in with the

“Get. out of my way!” | sereamed, “I’m coming through!” And as | headed for
the British guards, | could hear the Chinese bullets whining around my feet.

owhere

men being released, perhaps the guards would not count
noses too carefully, and maybe that way I could escape.
And if they did make an accurate count and found one
man too many, then I could chance the break for freedom.
There was no other way out. And I had to get out.

That break for freedom only climaxed the series of
messes that I had been in since early in the war. But it was
not to be the last.

It all goes back to—where? To my birth, I guess. You
see, I had the bad luck to be born in a little backwater
community in an Alabama swamp. Well, 45 years ago
folks didn't pay much attention to things like birth rec-
ords, and so my birth was never recorded officially. When

I was 15 I ran away to sea, and after a time I sort of made
Melbourne, Australia, my home port, and I just naturally
became more or less of an Australian. I belonged to an
Australian seagoing union, and I generally shipped out on
Australian or English ships.

When the war broke out, I was an able-bodied seaman
on a freighter, a ship called the Maimonides that flew a
Greek flag and was running between Yokohama and
Genoa, by way of all ports between. We had left Yokohama
and were running down the China coast when the radio
broke the news about Pearl Harbor. The crew was mixed
up, mostly Greeks and Malays; I was the only Aussie
aboard—or Alabama-Australian, you might say. A hurri-

cane began to shape up that night, and we were all worried
because this tub had a tall deck load, and she wasn't very
seaworthy anyhow, being about 30 years old.

The captain changed course so we would run close to
land, which was bad judgment. In deep water we might
have ridden out the hurricane; inshore we stood a fine
chance of running aground. Which we did. I was standing
graveyard watch when she struck rocks with an ear-
splitting roar. It was as if the old ship screamed in agony
when she felt the rocks rip her guts out.

The shock threw me into the sea. I was wearing my life-
jacket, because the seas had been breaking over her for
several hours. I knew there was (Continued on page 68)

My

She was 26 years old, five-foot-two,
less than 100 pounds, reddish-blond

hair, blue eyes—and probably dead.

TUUM

by LYLE J. CAMPBELL, Chief of Police, Columbia, S.C., as told to Ken Jones

The hands of the clock behind the heavy wire
mesh around the desk sergeant’s compartment in
2 the Columbia Police Department stood almost
straight up for 12 o'clock of a raw, cold night at the bitter
end of January.

“Pretty near time for change of watch, Bob,” observed
easygoing Sergeant Fred Kelsey to his watch mate, De-
partment Clerk Bob Cothran. “And I bet the boys outside
are happy about it, too!”

Cothran was about to reply when both men were im-
pelled to silence by the banging of a distant door and the
rapid approach of firm footsteps—marching footsteps, they

seemed—along the wooden-floored corridor leading from
the entrance.

“Ts this where I report a missing person?"

The visitor. who strode through the door was as striking
an individual as either ever had encountered. He was tall—
better than six feet—and the meticulously tailored uniform
of a U.S. Army lieutenant which he wore left no doubt that
he was magnificently built. He was compellingly handsome,
he carried his well shaped head with just a touch of arro-
gance, his voice was deep and resonant and even in one
short sentence his clipped inflection revealed the habit of
command.

On a cold, raw, February day, we lifted Mary Lee’s body from its grave and took it to the coroner’s office for the autopsy.

“My wife is missing. I want to make a report!” elabo-
rated the officer impatiently, disregarding the obvious fact
that his striking personality, bearing, and manner had
momentarily nonplused even so seasoned a policeman as
Sergeant Kelsey. For Lieutenant Sam Epes (pronounced
“Epps”) was accustomed to that sort of thing. Females—
middle-aged ones and bobby soxers, for the most part—
had been known to be seized with momentary dizziness
when he passed in the street, and it was not unusual for
men to cast grudging glances of admiratior in his wake.
Sam Epes had everything—or so it seemed. He was an
officer, and quite palpably no act of Congress was required

LŠ]

to make him a gentleman. He had ample means; his family
was socially prominent in the Old Dominion; and his wife,
petite Mary Lee Epes (nee Williams) came from an
Atlanta family fully matching Sam’s in property, probity
and social advantages.

"Well ...?" The lieutenant’s lip began to curl and his
eyes to snap at the momentary inaction of the police.
Lieutenant Samuel C. Epes did not like to be kept waiting
by policemen. Indeed, Lieutenant Epes did not like to be
kept waiting— Period.

"I'll be glad to take your report, sir," Kelsey assured
him, moving toward the small (Continued on page 46)

E

Girl Who Played Indian `

CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE b

In fringed buckskins, Pamela played a Seminole maiden z

for the movies. But as far as we know, no | >

indian ever posed in costumes like these:

DOSS

KEEP AWAY
from the BLONDE

Fooling with the girl would only get
us in deeper than ever, but Tom hadn’t
seen a woman in three months.

by CHARLES VINDEX wWNDE

STAG I don’t know exactly where I am now. It’s flat

farm country—Iowa, maybe, or Nebraska. No-
body on this freight has spotted me yet, and in
the little towns we’ve gone through I haven’t
seen any cops. But it’s getting awfully cold. I
don’t know if I can stand the cold much longer. If Tom were
here, he might know what to do. But Tom is dead.

It’s kind of lonesome without him. I guess I liked Tom
Maples from the first time I met him. Maybe it was because he
was a big guy and I’m a little guy. But that’s not the only
reason; somehow there seemed to be more to Tom than to the
other guys behind the fence.

Maybe you don’t know what it’s (Continued on page 50)

IIIIIA I
FICTION

ILLUSTRATED BY BOB SCHULZ

26

If my patient died, | was going

with him—a rifle in my side told
me that. And all | had to operate
with was a small penknife, some
steel straps from a packing case,
needles and thread supplied by a

VE HIM...

native woman and a bunch of old rags.

by Dr. Ruland Sykerly

as told to Hubert Pritchard

I looked down at the wounded man and knew that
I was as good as dead. If he died I would die too
7 —and he looked more like a bundle. of chopped
meat than a man. He was unconscious from shock and loss
of blood; his eyes were partly open with only the whites
showing. His clothes were ripped away to reveal a great
dirty tear in his belly. It was impossible; I could do noth-
ing for the man. I turned angrily to Tulu who stood be-
hind me, the muzzle of his rifle still pressed into-my side.
“I can’t do a thing for him. He might stand a chance if
you got him to the hospital in Donghoa, but I wouldn’t
make any promises even then. I am a doctor, but I. would
need an operating room, instruments, drugs—you have
nothing here, I don't even have my bag."
Tulu smiled at me, but only with his mouth. His eyes
were still cold and deadly; they never left my face for an

SHARE HIS GRAVE!”

instant. With a sudden motion he pressed the rifle barrel
hard into my side.

“Doctor, this wounded man is Gai Uan, a great hero of
the people. Your friends of the Viet Nam would kill him
on sight. He must stay here in the jungle and he must
live. That is your job. If he should die now he will be
buried here with great honor. You will be buried in the
grave with him.”

I had driven into town earlier in the day for the cele-
bration of Tét, the Indochinese New Year, and my return
had been delayed because of an alert; there had been a
guerrilla raid on one of the warehouses. The Viet Minh
were getting more active every day, there seemed to be no
way of stopping them. This was the first daylight raid they
had tried and, while their losses were heavy, they destroyed
most of the stores. I had waited until the confusion
had died down, then started back. By that time it was dark.

Many cars had been ambushed and burned along the
stretch of road, so I wasn't very happy about driving at
night. It looked as if my worries were groundless. I was
almost to my house when disaster struck. There is a bridge

across a stream there with a sharp turn at each end. I
bumped across the bridge and hit the turn doing about 45
miles an hour. The car was around the turn before I saw
the log in the road. I had just stamped hard on the brake
when the front wheels hit. Both front tires blew and the
rear whipped around, I barely had time to throw my arms
over my face as the car went off the road.

There was a crash like a boiler factory collapsing as the
old Citroén hit the ditch and turned over. I managed to
hold onto the wheel until the car stopped. I had to get out
before the spilled gasoline caught fire. The door was
jammed shut, I hammered at it with no results. I crawled
over to try the other door just as it was pulled open from
the ouside. The words of thanks died on my lips when I
saw who my rescuer was.

A Viet Minh guerrilla! There was no mistaking the
crossed cartridge belts and long knife. There were others
with him. I started to draw back but rough hands grabbed
me and pulled me through the door. When I opened my
mouth to shout, a piece of filthy rag was stuffed into it. A
guerrilla lit a match and threw it (Continued on page 72)

27

ce
3.

Mas m WR E : ij
| never asked her name, and, I've never Seen her since. But for wo
nights we slept pressed together—trying to Warm. ‘each. other e

x

so that we wouldn't die in the blizzard that blocked Donne

Ever hear of the Donner Pass? It’s a slit in the
P Sierra Nevada Mountains leading out to the Cali-
à; fornia plain. One hundred and more years ago it
was as much a landmark as the Oregon Trail. Many a
covered wagon has rusted and rotted by its side; many a
man, battered by the howling winds of winter, paused to
rest in the lee of a snowdrift—and was still there when
the summer sun came to bleach his bones. The man they
named the pass for died there, and so did 36 of the 81
members of his wagon train. The rest survived only by
eating the corpses of their loved ones, and the memory
they took out of the pass marked their lives forever after.

I didn't know any of this until a couple of years ago.
Then I went to a library and read everything I could find
about the Donner Pass. I had a very special interest in it
by then—along with 231 men, women and children, I
was trapped there for 72 hours.

It began in pure routine: I kissed my wife good-bye in
Chicago's Union Station, boarded the Southern Pacific
streamliner City of San Francisco and settled myself in
my compartment for the three-day trip to the West Coast.
Pd ridden this train a dozen times in the past five years

As the diesel snowplows forged through the 20-foot
drifts, we froze in our ice-encased train (above).

by RONALD M. CLEARY
as told to LAWRENCE ELLIOTT

for business reasons and never regarded the trip as any-
thing but a chore. Until January, 1952, the most exciting
thing I’d seen happen aboard the City of San Francisco
was the time a club-car athlete made a pass at a well-
shaped buyer from New York who, it turned out, wasn’t
buying that, and 12 or 15 people saw our hero get his face
smartly slapped.

But this was January, 1952, and, looking back, I can
read the signs that might have told me this trip would be
different. For days, the newspapers had been full of
stories about storms sweeping the Coast, drenching rains
and floods in Los Angeles, blinding snows in the mountains.
Just before we rolled into the foothills of the Sierra
Nevadas, I strolled along a station stop and heard a man
read a news item to his wife about the huge snowdrifts
that blocked main roads and isolated towns and villages.

None of this registered with me. After all, this was the
20th century; we were riding a giant streamliner, one of
the most modern on the rails. What could possibly go
wrong?

The first ominous sign came on Sunday night, the 13th.
I'd just returned to my compartment from the diner when

CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

29

30

okt

On the deadly slopes of infamous Donner Pass, we waited
for rescue from the blizzard for*a terrifying 72 hours.

suddenly, and for no apparent reason, the train stopped.
I looked out the window; maybe we were picking up a
passenger at a way station. But there was no station out-
side in that dark, snow-swirling night. There were only
huge drifts, piled higher than the train on either side of
the track, and the falling snow which had begun coming
down that afternoon as we reached the Sierras.

I opened a report I’d been meaning to read en route
and tried not to think about the stop. Any one of 17
reasons might cause a train to stop, I told myself, but
deep down the gnawing suspicion that something was
wrong began to take root.

The train had been standing motionless for about 10
minutes when I slammed the report shut and got up. I
don’t know exactly why; I don’t know what I was going
to do. All I know is that a kind of nervous restlessness had
gotten hold of me and I knew it was useless to try to read.

At that instant there was a loud knock on my door.
Then it was flung open. A man I’d never seen before stood
outside, his hair wild, tie loosened and the collar of his
shirt flopping outside his suit jacket.

“Why are we stopped?”

The question stunned me almost as much as the wild-
ness of his sudden appearance, and for a moment I hung
between slamming ‘the door in his face and trying to calm
him.

“Ts there anything the matter with the train? Please
tell me!”

For all his frantic look and tone, it was clear from the
man's voice and the cut of his suit that he was more than

Pressmen were waiting as we got off the icebound train,
but there were aspects of our ordeal we couldn't discuss.

continued

just a guy named Joe. I took a step toward him and said,
“Take it easy, mister. I don't know why we're stopped,
but I doubt if it's anything to get excited about."

For a second he just stared at me as though I'd just
dropped into my compartment from the moon. Then he
wheeled, rushed down the passageway as suddenly as he
had appeared, and slammed the door to the next compart-
ment behind him.

I started to close my door when I saw the conductor
moving toward me down the passageway. I stepped out-
side, blocking his path:

"What's the score here? Are we going to be moving
soon?"

"Can't say, sir," he said, still trying to edge around me.
“Snowslides have blocked the track and we're trying to
dig out."

“Trying to dig out?" I echoed. “In this storm? Why,
you...”

This time he did slip by me and I realized I was talking
to myself.

I walked slowly back into my compartment, closed the
door, lit a cigarette and sat down to think this thing
through. There was, of course, plenty that I didn’t know—
how big the slide was, how far away help was—but I did
know that in a storm like this, men without heavy equip-
ment would have no more chance of digging this train clear
of a snowslide than my five-year-old has of digging through
the beach at Lake Michigan to China. We were stuck!

I was still sitting there when the conductor came through
an hour later. He knocked on each (Continued on page 60)

Our relief came none too soon. More than a dozen of the
passengers were hospital-bound from exposure and shock.

It beat me down—a ton of boiling

water—and that’s when | got
it good. Like a knife across my groin,

the reef ripped my belly.

Swept off the box by the comber, the Mexicans churned like

by CAPT. CALVIN H. BURNS

as told to James Joseph

It began in the black, boiling waters of the Pacific,

j four, perhaps five, miles off Cape San Lazaro light,

500 miles south of San Diego off the Baja Cali-
fornia coast. The time: a few minutes past 7:30 p.m. The
date: November 12, 1954.

The Betsy Anne was over on her port side, her beams
awash, her keel shuddering as heavy seas crashed over her.
I crouched on her starboard gunwale, clawing to stand
erect against wind and sea. Dimly, there in the black water
below, bobbed the others—Don Deaton, making his first
run as a bottom fisherman, and the two Mexican Nationals,
Francisco Burquez and Antonio Zamoro. They clung to a
hatch cover, a makeshift preserver. It was all we had, for a
10-foot comber had carried the life jackets overboard.

For a lingering moment I teetered there. I felt Betsy
Anne settling, quivering as green seas pounded the life out
of her. Then I jumped.

I remember kicking off my rubber fish boots and working
out of my denims. Clad only in (Continued on page 64)

N

N MEN OUTDOORS

A MAN’S WALLET

MEN IN CRIME

ITALY IS WARRING ON SEX CRIME by using a
corps of 1,500 well-stacked plain-clothes
women to act as decoys. But first the
girls will be trained in self-defense. . ..

San Francisco has finally unloaded its
fabled Chinatown police squad which got
started in the day of the tong wars and
tribute murders. The squad, headed by
Inspector Jack Manion, was formed at a
time when the gangster tongs dominated
gambling houses, opium dens and brothels,
when fan-tan, pie-gow and Chinese lotteries
were running full blast. But the last
murder attributed to a tong occurred in
1926, and, since the Chinese have been
complaining they're being picked on, the
squad's been broken up. . . .

THERE'S A HOT BUNCH OF HOUSE-TRAILER
THIEVES operating out of New York and
Florida. . . .

In Corsica, there's still an ancient
HOT-BLOODED LAW on the books that says if
your honor is despoiled, you're entitled
to become an avenger, straighten things
out, then surrender. The law figured
recently in the case of a beautiful, dark-
eyed Corsican "Bandit of Honor" who slew
a peddler who had dishonored her... . .

Snake-handling is against the law in
Virginia, BUT THE COPS AREN'T DOING ANY-
THING about a weird snake-handling

34 religious sect that fondles rattlers and

intends to keep on doing so even though
five members have died of poisoning. . . .

Connecticut cons got a raise from 15
cents a day to two bits (to meet inflationary
cost of butts, shaving cream.) ...

MEN IN UNIFORM

LATEST WAY TO KILL EVERYBODY is to drop
an H-Bomb somewhere in the Arctic. If the
trillions of tons of Arctic ice were ever
thawed, everyone in the cities of New York,
Los Angeles, London, Paris would be drowned.
(Omaha is pretty high above sea level and
might be saved.) ...

UGLIEST AND RUGGEDEST part of going
through the Air Force's new "Brainwash"
school is when interrogators start insult-
ing your religion, racial background,
physical peculiarities (big ears, big nose,
etc.), saying dirty things about your wife,
mother, girl friend. THAT'S WHEN MOST MEN
CRACK if they're going to crack at all....

Any American GI private stationed in
Japan hauls in as much dough as a full
Japanese general. The Japanese general
gets $205.53 a month which is $157 after
taxes. GI GETS $155 PLUS ALLOWANCES AND
HE'S NOT TAXED. ...

More than 100 ex-Luftwaffe pilots have
started jet training refresher courses at
U.S. bases in Germany . . . Americans cap-
tured during Korean War agree worst prison
camp of all was "Pak's Palace" near

A MAN’S CAR

_ CONFIDENTIAL |

Pyongyang ; worst captor was sadistic North
Korean Colonel Pak and second worst was
his henchman "Dirty Pictures" Wong. . ..
BIGGEST BONEHEAD PROJECT of all is Navy's
effort to recover $133,000 of back pay
from discharged GIs who were overpaid
when they were on WW II duty in Great Lakes.
If Navy ever catches up with overpaid
gobs it'll cost each one up to $200. . . .
Pilots of high-powered noisy airplanes
will be talking through ear mikes in the
future. When mouth and nose are covered
by baffle box, speech sounds can be heard
clearly coming from the ear, with 129 per
cent more intelligibility. ...

MEN IN SPORTS

WINNING THE DAVIS CUP is one thing.
Lifting it is another. It weighs 124 pounds,
holds 28 quarts of champagne (and did
once.) . . . Floydie Patterson should get
a heavyweight title bout in the next two
years . . . List of fighters who've gone
in for painting is impressive; Mickey
Walker, the "Toy Bulldog" started it;
Some modern painting pugs are Willie
Pastrano and George Araujo. . . .

Pat McCormick, the curvy American dish
who made good in the Mexican bull rings,
actually never made that good. She's still
a novillero, which means she can only kill
bulls weighing less than 850 pounds. . ..

In the old days, close fights were

MEN IN SPORTS

INSIDE FOR MEN

usually CONTINUED IN THE STREET after the
crowd went home. That's what Mickey Walker
and Harry Greb did after their fight for
the middleweight titles met outside behind
a bar and resumed festivities. ...

A MAN'S CAR

YOU WON'T HAVE TO DO ANY BRAKING to
bring the car of the future to a stop. Just
let up on the accelerator, which'll be
used as a valve to control power braking
» e e AIR CONDITIONING WILL SOON BE
STANDARD EQUIPMENT in higher-priced cars,
but not this year. . . .

There's never been a time in history
when autos were so alike in design and
construction. Basic body shells are
practically all alike, with fenders and
trim making the difference . . . Volks-
wagen chasing every other make of car right
off the map in Europe, GETTING A BIG
TOEHOLD here, too . . . If you can learn
to HUNCH YOUR SHOULDERS when tires screech
behind you, it may save your neck. You
can do more damage to your neck from a
rear-end collision at 10 mph than at 20
mph where the greater impact flexes your
front seat backward to take up some of the
shóek. . » e

Drive 25,000 miles with the same shock
absorbers, and the chances are you need
new ones. .. .

You can expect smaller diameter wheels

Continued on page 48

S

Suddenly my head bumped sharply against the ceiling of ice.

i had

In 10 more minutes, | would suffocate;
in 15 minutes, | would freeze. That's
all the time | had left to bust my

way out from under 8 inches of ice.

Hanging awkwardly to the cable in our heavy
gear, we scraped down the ice-covered rocks.

My two weight belts had dropped off my shoulders. I was floating, and couldn’t have gotten to the bottom even with fins.

to scuttle myself

by ED FISHER

I'm supposed to be an underwater expert. That's
pP a laugh, really, because after what’s happened I
a don’t honestly believe there is such an animal.
No man can be expert on diving in any and all situations.
The oceans, rivers and lakes of the world are too vast and
full of complications for any man to claim that distinction.

I’ve been diving for about eight years—off the coast of
California, on the Florida reefs at night, deep in under-
ground caves and in a hundred other crazy places, and in
each new situation there was a little trick hiding—maybe
one that could be fatal. When death comes openly, like a
shark that gives you something to fight, it’s not so bad, but
usually it’s not that easy. The little things trip you up, the
simple mistakes that pile up one on top of the other so
that when you finally realize you’re in danger it seems all
you can,do is lie down and die.

This is the kind of trouble I got into when I made what
should have been a simple business-trip to Chicago in the
middle of the winter.

I was up in the windy city doing promotional work for a

big manufacturer of sports diving equipment during the
Annual Sport Dealers’ show. Around the last day of the
brawl a couple of rugged guys walked up and introduced
themselves to me.

“My name’s Charlie LaVerne, and this is Harold Bell,”
the tall one said, nodding to his partner, and offering me a
huge paw. I took it, mumbled my name, which he seemed
to have anyhow, and let them get down to business.

*We heard you were up here and wondered if you want-
ed to do a little diving with our club,” Charlie said. ““We’ve
got all the special gear you'll need except for a regulator.
Got a trip planned day after the show ends.”

Dive! In this frozen hell? I thought it was a joke. I’d al-
ready contracted the worst cold I’d had since I moved
down to Miami seven years ago, and it was on the verge of
developing into pneumonia. But I saw that these guys were
serious.

Charlie explained that members of their club dived all
winter. Sure, there was ice covering all the lakes in the
area—at least half a foot of it, so that they had to hack

CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE

37

I had to scuttle myself continued

an entrance with a fire ax, but this was the only time
when the water was clear and settled. In the spring the
streams and rivers dump tons of mud into the lakes and in
the summer the algae cut visibility to a few feet. If I
wanted to get any pictures this was my only chance.

If they were nuts, I was crazier. I decided to go. I -

wanted to try it because it sounded so damned absurd and
besides maybe I could use some pictures taken under the
ice.

After the show I made arrangements to borrow a new
type regulator along with an underwater camera case from
the company display, and found a shop in town that would
rent me a Leica camera for $25. When the boys picked me
up at my hotel early the next morning I was raring to go.
My cold wasn’t any better, actually, but thinking about
my pending venture seemed to have knocked any sense
out of me.

We drove through the city while the sun was just ris-
ing and by the time we hit the outskirts a bitter cold wind
"was whipping snow into little drifts across the highway.
Another member of the club was along besides Charlie and
Harold. He was introduced to me simply as “the kid.” He
did look like one next to the rest of us—all in our late 20s
—but he seemed not only enthusiastic as hell but also well
versed in the art of diving under the ice. The car swung
into the driveway at the kid’s house where we were to
dress in our gear. Harold explained that the abandoned
quarry we were to dive in was 10 miles farther up the road,
just across the state border in Wisconsin.

When I said we could dress in our gear, I meant we
would get loaded down. We put on enough gear to survive
in an arctic camp indefinitely. This was going to be a lot
different than diving on the Keys so that, with all my div-

Ue experience, I still had to let the kid show me what to
o.

First I stripped completely and put on a suit of long
cotton underwear. Over this went a heavy suit of wool
long-johns. -Next layer was a full-length foam rubber suit.
By this time I was beginning to sweat and found it difficult
to move my arms, but we hadn't finished. All the stuff so
far was just to keep me warm. Now I had to cover it all
with a waterproof covering. The water temperature would
be just slightly above freezing and if you spring a leak in
that temperature, according to the Navy manual, you die
in about 15 minutes, maximum.

The watertight outer suit was a two-piece job that sealed
over a rubber ring around my waist. We finally got the last
covering secured, then the finishing touches were added.
I wore a regular Navy watch cap under the hood of my
rubber suit and had two wool gloves on each hand. To
waterproof these, the boys pulled big, heavy-duty rubber
electricians’ gloves over the wool ones—then slipped a big
tin can with both ends cut out over my wrist. Over the
can they slid the cuff of my glove and the sleeve of my
rubber shirt, and locked them in place with big rubber
bands. It made a really ingenious pressure-proof seal.

Getting dressed in this stuff required at least two other
guys to help you, and by the time you get the gloves. in
place you're about helpless for doing precision work. We
checked each other's outfits and then piled into the car,
loaded down with the rest of our diving equipment.

During the short ride to the lake I felt like I was going
to suffocate, but when we got there, unloaded the stuff and
hauled it to the lake's edge, the wind howling across the
surface woke me up.

The huge mass of snow-covered ice lay at the bottom
of a steep cliff that surrounded it
on all sides. I was looking for the
steps that we'd use to negotiate the
precipice when I noticed the cable.
It was a rusted length of half-inch
steel rope that hung down over the
side of the cliff, secured at the top
by a pipe driven into the frozen
ground. I guessed that this was the
way we would descend. I was right.

Charlie went first and gingerly
slipped over the side, clinging to the
icy strand. Small avalanches of
snow were dislodged as he worked
his way down and finally he reached
the surface of the lake, about 60
feet below us. I was next, and went
down with my tank and camera
strapped to my back, thinking each
step would send me bouncing down
the sheer wall of rock and snow
below. I made it without mishap
though, and Harold and the kid
followed.

If I ever remember a strange
sight it'll be of that nutty crew of
guys (Continued on page 44)

My whole body was cramping from
the cold, and my air was exhausted,
as I crawled out through the opening.

Selection from cartoon book “Love from France” edited by sehen DAE
Edna Bennett, published and copyright 1955 by A. A. W yn. re) d*

*Mother, it's for you."

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39

How | Made

Maybe you can remember back to this one: "| wanna give

If you think this car-top act is crazy, you should have seen the time Muntz played Lady Godiva—in red underwear.

a Million

‘em away—but Mrs. Muntz won't let me. SHE'S CRAZY!”

by EARL “MADMAN” MUNTZ

as told to Irving Wallace

PW it wasn’t until everybody thought I
was crazy that I began making
€ money. The *Madman Muntz" type
of advertising I started in Southern Cali-
fornia not only made me the world's largest
used car dealer but put color into the used
car business all over the country. Today my
methods of creating sales are being imitated
not only in the United States but in foreign
countries as well.

I may be in the chips now but don't ever
think I didn't have a rough time figuring out
a formula on how to make money. I'll tell
about it here. Maybe it will help someone else
make a million. It may not be necessary to

wear red flannel underwear and act crazy to -

succeed in the business world, but I must
admit it surely helped to bring me success.

If Madman Muntz told you he didn't like
to make money you'd surely think he was
really crazy. I get a big thrill out of making
money, and a bigger one when I can spend
it. But maybe I would be far better off finan-
cially if I'd been following the teachings of
Grandpa Muntz.

Grandpa Henry Muntz was a conservative
German storekeeper and believed in hard
work and saving everything. Nothing went to
waste. I remember Grandpa's house. He al-
ways kept it well painted. One time it had
seven different colors of paint on it at once—
remnants he couldn't sell.

I was born at Elgin, Illinois, in 1914. When
15 years old, and still in high school, I quit
school to help my dad in his radio shop. I
specialized in installing car radios. In those
days it took about three days to install one.
My early training in repairing radios eventual-
ly got me interested in building and selling
television sets.

I have always liked to handle tools. Tinker-

ing with obstinate radio sets wasn't enough
excitement for a teen-age boy. By then I had
read about the racing adventures of such men
as Barney Oldfield and Eddie Rickenbacker.

-I had à yen to become an auto race driver.

So to learn about engines I took whatever
jobs I could find around garages, starting out
as a greasemonkey.

Before I was of age I was buying and sell-
ing used cars and mother would sign the
papers with me. I'd buy old clunks for around
$25, fix them up and sell them for a hundred
or so, probably clearing $25.

After lots of hard work I had $1,000 saved
up. That was a small fortune in the early
Thirties. I was to get my first experience in
dealing with a gyp artist at this time. I lost
my thousand bucks fast, but it taught me a
valuable lesson. A stranger gave me a hard
luck story, said he needed $1,000 immediately
and offered me two large diamonds, said
they'd been in the family for generations, even
suggesting that I take the stones to any jewel-
ry store for an appraisal. I did and our local
jeweler told me they were worth $3,000 but
due to their size would be hard to sell. I
couldn't get back fast enough to close the
deal. I peeled out all my savings and took the
diamonds. I was so proud of my deal I
couldn't resist going back to see the jeweler
again to talk about the diamonds. He took one
look at the stones and said, “These aren't the
diamonds! These are glass!"

Somehow in the deal the crook exchanged
glass ones for the real diamonds and I was
out my thousand dollars.

By 1937, when I was 23 years old, I had
my own automobile agency in Elgin and had
used car lots at nearby Joliet and Woodstock.
Business was good.

Midget car racing (Continued on page 56)

The explosion startled the bear, but he got over
it quick, and came at me in a four-footed rush.

by EDDIE TOOLU

as told to Emile C. Schurmacher

M Jess Munikak and I were sledding three miles out
P on the Chuckchee Sea ice off Port Hope when I
2 pulled about the dumbest trick in the whole
damned gun book.

I’m not the only fellow who sticks a piece of flannel in
his rifle end on the Chuckchee or elsewhere on the Alaska
north coast. Otherwise, with all the moisture and the
temperature at 25 and more below, ice starts forming right
in the gun barrel.

But like Jess pointed out: “Any guy who puts a strip of
rag in his rifle muzzle ought to have sense enough to pull it
out before he fires his gun."

No argument about that. My only excuse is that I hadn’t
expected to use the rifle.

We started out that November morning with the idea
of harpooning bearded seal, what we call oogruk. My gun
was in the komiak along with the harpoons and other gear.

The temperature was down around 30 below and the
wind was blowing from the west, which wasn’t hopeful. It
fanned hard into our faces, pushing against the already
tumbled-up pressure ice so that there were no open leads
to search for oogruk.

After a couple of miles of rough sledding I saw the score
and was ready to call quits.

“No use,” I told Jess. “The ice bridge goes out for miles
and finding oogruk is more than a one-day hunt. We better
call it off until the wind changes.”

“Let’s try it for another mile or so,” Jess said. “Maybe
we'll hit the beginning of a lead on the other side of that
piled-up ice out there."

We kept going for about half a mile and then we came
across some bear tracks in the new powder. From the looks
of them a hungry bear had been hunting for a meal of
oogruk earlier in the morning. (Continued on page 74)

With the gun out of action and the harpoon hanging from the bear, Jess

had only one way left. He was going to take on the giant, hand-to-hand.

dressed up in bulbous diving costumes,
lugging Aqua-Lungs, snow shovels and
ice picks through six inches of snow
across the reservoir. On the other side
Charlie got the shovel out and cleared
an area of snow so that Harold could go
to work with the fire ax. It took over
half an hour to cut a complete circle
through the surface, because halfway
through the ax handle broke on the hard
ice and we had to use a big crowbar like
an ice pick to finish the job.

Harold and the kid pushed down hard
on the eight-inch thick slab of ice, while
Charlie and I shoved it out under the
frozen surface of the lake. We cleared a
hole about six feet in diameter and in it
the water looked clear—clear enough to
see bottom—but we were at the edge of
the lake where the water was only about
five feet deep. From what the others told
me, the bottom dropped off sharply and
in some places got over 60 feet deep.

I managed to get my lung on, slung my
camera around my neck, and loaded my-
self down with two weight belts because
I knew I'd be terrifically buoyant with
all my clothing. Next, I needed my fins
but I searched the gear bag Charlie had
given me and couldn't find any. When I
told them my trouble, the boys dug
through the rest of the equipment, with
no luck. They had forgotten to bring a
pair for me. This was great! It'd be im-
possible for me to flounder around in the
water without fins.

HARLIE, who had the only pair that

would fit me, wanted to lend me his,
but I wanted to take pictures of him in
full rig; besides, I had a better idea. I'd
weight myself so heavily that I could
walk on the bottom just as if I were
wearing my old Dunn helmet again. It
would work in most situations. The only
trouble here was that it took over 50
pounds of lead to sink me. I had three
lead belts around my waist and there
wasn't room for the other two that I
needed, so I just draped the extra ones
over each shoulder. They took me down
fine. I lowered myself through the hole,
and when I hit the freezing water I felt
a shock on the only part of my skin ex-
posed; my cheeks and lips.

I remembered what Harold had told me
about checking my mouthpiece every few
minutes. You have to do this because
your face gets numb in the 34-degree
water and you can't'tell if the mouth-
piece is slipping out of place or not. I
moved out from the hole into about eight
feet of water and waited for the others to
come down.

Charlie came next, clumsily swimming
along the surface, just under the white,
smooth bottom of the ice. He had a
safety line tied to his waist, and, as it

reeled out from over the hole, I thought
how much our lives depended on that
thin piece of manila. The other end of
the coil was secured to a long board that
lay crosswise over the hole, and, as long
as we kept the line in sight underwater,
we could always find our way back to the
air.

They were all in the water now, and I

started to take hurried pictures of them
swimming out beyond me in the deeper
water. I knew they wanted to head for
the other side of the quarry, below the
highway that ran along the top of the
cliff, to look for some of the junk that
had fallen into the water during the past
50 years.

Before we had left the day before,
Harold had told me that a few weeks
previously they'd found a couple of old
cars, a half-dozen bicycles, and all sorts
of junk, including a steel safe, a rusted
automatic and a sawed-off rifle. These
last items were probably relics from the
days of Chicago's big crime wave, and
the boys figured maybe they'd find some-
thing worthwhile like some hot loot that
had been ditched years ago.

I was stumbling along the bottom in
shallow water, trying to keep up with the
others, when suddenly I saw Charlie
signal to his buddies and cut out for the
center of the quarry. Harold and the kid
followed, and in a few seconds they were
out of sight. The safety line sped out
after them and I struggled down the bank
after it, trying to keep it in sight.

I stumbled and fell on the rocky bot-
tom and in turning, noticed for the first
time the terrific clouds of sediment I was
kicking up off the bottom. It rose in huge,
ominous clouds that stretched from the
bottom all the way to the ceiling of ice
above me. With six inches of snow lying
on the ice, the light down here was bad to
begin with. Now, with the clouds of silt
boiling over me, it became actually dark.

I spun around, hoping that the line
would still be in sight beyond the clouds
in the clear water out toward the center
of the lake, and went hurtling farther
down the slope. Suddenly I had to stop.
A sharp pain building up in my right ear
told me I wasn’t equalizing. My lousy
cold had packed mucus in my ear tubes so
that air couldn't pass through.

I gagged and tried to blow my nose out
through my mask but still couldn't clear.
Frantically I took a deep breath and
pulled the mouthpiece from my mouth
and tried to cough the cartarrh from my
throat. It was no good. To go any deeper
without being able to equalize was suicide.
I would rupture my eardrum and would
get so dizzy I'd be completely disoriented.
It's happened before and I know how bad
it can be.

I replaced my mouthpiece and blew my

I HAD TO SCUTTLE

MYSELF

Continued from page 38

lines and tried to relax. Although I didn't
have the safety line to guide me, there
was a good chance that if I went back up
the slope and bore to the left into the
shallow water I'd be able to find the hole
again. Before I started, I just stood there
trying to calm down and catch my breath
after all the exertion. All the weight and
clumsy gear I was wearing made just
moving an effort. I tried to take deep,
slow breaths but discovered that my air
was getting hard to breathe.

I remembered that back in the hotel
I had set my safety reserve to cut in 15
minutes before my air ran out complete-
ly. I checked my watch. I'd been down
less than half an hour but, with so much
heavy work, I'd used up my main air
supply already. I reached back to flip my
air reserve lever and then froze—horri-
fied. I couldn't feel anything! Couldn't
tell if my hand was on my regulator, my
head, or just waving around in the water.
Two pairs of wool gloves plus the heavy
rubber ones.reduced my sense of touch
to nothing.

The safety lever was a little metal arm
that stuck out from the back of my regu-
later about an inch and a half. Even in
normal conditions it's difficult to find the
lever, but now it was absolutely impos-
sible. I had to do something. With each
breath I took, I could feel the air getting
harder and harder to pull as the pressure
in my cylinder dropped.

S usual, I couldn't think well under-

water. At first I wanted to make a
mad rush up the slope and try to find the
hole. After a couple of stumbling steps I
realized how futile this would be. There
was less than a couple of minutes' air in
my main supply. I got-hold of myself
and slowly thought of an idea. It's one
you'd think of immediately if your brain
was working normally, but down there it
came hard. I pulled the safety hitches on
the straps of my tank and squirmed out
of the harness. Then I swung my lung
around in front of me, keeping the mouth-
piece in place. It was as simple as that.
Now I could reach out and flip the lever
without any trouble and when I did, the
air rushed into my chest, like it was
filling a vacuum.

I could get air now . . . at least for a
while. I had a 15-minute supply of life
in my tank, and turned the timing ring
on my watch to keep track of the time.
Suddenly I felt a sharp bump on my
head and, looking up, saw that I had hit
the ceiling of ice. It took a few minutes
to figure out what had happened and to
realize the situation I was in.

The two weight belts that had been
dropped over my shoulders were gone. In
my struggle to get out of the harness
they must've dropped off, and now I had

floated up against the ceiling of ice,
buoyant by a force of over 25 pounds—
enough so that even if I had fins I'd
never be able to get down near the bot-
tom. It lay at least 40 feet below and
the silt clouding the water made visibility
less than four feet.

N a panic, I tried to think which way
l the hole was. The ceiling was an endless
expanse of smooth white ice, offering no
clue to show me the way. Hell, even if I
knew the way, the slippery ice gave me
no grip to pull myself along with and
without fins I could only flounder around
like a fish out of water.

The sweep-second hand on my watch
raced around the luminescent dial. There
were 10 minutes left for me to do some-
thing. I thought of air pockets trapped
under ice. Here there was nothing except
tiny flattened bubbles of my exhausted
air. Maybe the others will find me, or
maybe the safety line will pass by . . .
wild hopes flashed through my mind for
just an instant. Then I sobered up.

I’ve had enough tough assignments to
know that you can’t survive on maybes.
You've got to make your breaks. You've
got to think of something. Finally, I did.
There was a good chance that it would kill
me faster than I'd go this way, but at
least there was hope. If the bottom was
my only guide to the hole then I had to
hit bottom. There was only one way to
do it: scuttle myself—flood my suit with
water so I could sink. The water was at
freezing temperature. According to all
the books it would kill me in less than
15 minutes, but with 10 minutes of air
left, what could I lose?

I wrapped one arm around my air
cylinder and tried to rip the gloves off my
right hand. I couldn't get a grip with my
clumsy fingers so I took a breath and
spat out my mouthpiece and bit at the
tough rubber. I gnawed furiously at the
leathery stuff and finally tore a hole big
enough to reach in with a finger and rip
off the gloves on one hand. Ignoring the
stinging pain of the ice water on my bare
hand I lifted my arm and shoved myself
down under the ice. Bubbles poured out
of my sleeve through the section of tin
can and I could feel myself getting
heavier. The icy water pouring into my
suit against my skin felt boiling hot in-
stead of cold, but after the first shock, I
started to numb. I squirmed around
making sure that there were no air traps
in the suit and finally felt myself sinking.

Pressure built up in my ears again, but
I had decided to rupture my ears if
necessary to get down. When the pain
became unbearable, I snorted out my
nose and stretched my jaw muscles as
hard as I could and, just when it felt as
if my eardrums were going to burst, heard
air squeal past the ear tubes and felt the
pain disappear immediately. At last I
could equalize.

When I hit bottom and felt the solid
rocks under my feet, it was like a shot in
the arm. I had five minutes to find the
hole and took slow, deliberate steps up
the slope, clutching my air cylinder against
my chest with one hand and clawing at
the ground with the other.

About halfway up, my right leg
cramped in the calf, a big hard knot that

hurt bad at first, but I just dragged it
behind me trying not to noice the pain.
I can take cramps in my legs and even
my arms but I had a stomach cramp once
and knew that if I got one here it would
double me up and finish me.

The silt seemed to be worse up in
shallower water but now I had reached
a point where I could see the ceiling of
ice. I worked my way up to where the
water was about five feet deep and turned
to the left in the direction I figured the
hole was. There was a 50-50 chance of
finding it.

The minute hand on my watch had
knocked off 14 minutes from the time
I'd set the safety reserve. Still the air
flowed into my lungs each time I de-
manded it. The silt was clearing now—a
bad sign. It meant that I was losing the
path over which I had come originally.
There were no currents to move the cloud,
I thought, and cursed myself for getting
in this mess.

According to my watch, my air should
have run out by now, but I'd been mov-
ing slowly, using it sparingly, so that
maybe I had a few minutes more left.
T'd need it. I was lost, but good.

The water was clear again in this spot
and I could look back and see the
boundary of the cloud that obliterated
the whole half of the lake—somewhere
in there, was a hole just big enough for
me to climb through, out of this tomb.

A feeling of panic swept over me and
I was going to rush back blindly into the
murky water when I heard a noise—a
sound like an outboard motor far away
through the rumble of my bubbles
against the ice. I held my breath. Now I
could tell it was a scraping noise like
someone trying to dig through the ice.

I backed off down the slope so that I
could get a broader view of the ceiling of
ice in the clear section of water. Then I
saw an incredible sight. Through the dull,
white, continuous awning above me, a
band of light appeared. It lengthened as
if someone was painting a line with a
huge brush on the surface of the ice. At
the moving end two little black blotches
followed the line, and then I realized
what it was. One of the boys was shovel-

ing a path in the snow to show me the
way to the hole.

I raced toward the streak of light where
the path led into the cloud of silt. My
eyes were glued to the band and even in
the dirty water it showed the way clearly
on the surface. Both my legs were
cramped badly but I clawed over the bot-
tom with one hand, clinging to my air
tank. My whole body felt on the verge of
cramping from the numbing cold and my
air became hard to pull once again.

The next minute was one I'll never
forget. First, just a faint area of illumi-
nation in the dark water . . . then a
brilliant patch of light where the sun
poured through the hole. I took a last
hard, deep breath from my exhausted
tank, crawled under the opening, and
emerged into the air.

When I was hauled out, the boys stood
me on my head and dumped the water
out of my suit and insisted that I stand
up and keep jumping. Charlie made me
run across the lake to the bottom of the
cliff, helped me fight my way up the

cable and then drove to the nearest farm- `

house where I stripped and borrowed
Charlie's long-johns.

I remember the people in the house
kept telling me to get near the stove but
I refused, because I'd read where you get
gangrene if you rapidly heat up parts of
your body that've been almost frozen. I
think I did the right thing because I felt
O.K., except for my chills, in a few
hours.

I found out later that it was the kid's
idea to mark a path on the top of the ice.
The boys had figured I'd gone out of the
water ahead of them and when they sur-
faced with the safety line it was too late
to go back. They had used up all their
air and were running around frantically,
trying to think of some way to reach me
when the kid grabbed the shovel and
started making a path in the snow leading
to the hole. -+

Frankly, I think that kid's too smart
to get into trouble under the ice. But
down on the Keys—well that's another
story. Maybe he'll find the ocean is full
of tricks he hadn't counted on, then
maybe I can return the favor. oe

"How'dja like to spend the winter at the South Pole?"

45

window in the wire lattice and picking up
a pencil. “What is your wife’s full name?”

Can a woman—any woman—simply
vanish into thin air without trace? That
was the nub of the problem presented to
Sergeant Kelsey by Sam Epes as the clock
struck midnight. And the answer to that
question is an emphatic “No!” When you
dig into the background of a missing per-
son and the circumstances surrounding his
or her disappearance, you invariably find
something to shed light on the mystery.
In 15 years as chief of the Columbia Po-
lice Department I have found that to be
true. But in mo case during my 15 years
as chief has my department walked into
such a complex mess of murder, passion,
poison, icy cunning and plain old-fash-
loned heartbreak as it did the night Sam
Epes first made his appearance among us.

HAT Sam Epes gave us to go on was

so typical as to be almost the epitome
of the average missing person report: He
and Mary Lee had been married four and
a half years, and they had been consist-
ently happy. There was no other man.
He had been transferred to Fort Jackson,
Columbia, some six weeks before, and he
and his young wife had found a small
second-floor apartment on Sims Avenue.
Lieutenant Epes was transportation and
administrative officer with a medical unit.
His unit's responsibility was removing the
dead and wounded from scenes of action;
he was not a doctor, although, on occa-
sion, he administered minor medication to
enlisted men.

As a consequence of interrupted elec-
tric service during the preceding night,
his electric alarm clock had been slow
that morning and he had overslept. Wak-
ing, he had decided not to delay for
breakfast but to pick it up at the fort.
As Mary Lee wanted to do some shop-
ping, he had driven her downtown and
dropped her in front of a popular cafe-
teria where she might breakfast while
waiting for the stores to open. He had
driven directly to Fort Jackson where
he'd had a busy day. When he returned
that evening, however, the morning milk
still sat outside the apartment door, and
there was no sign of Mary Lee. Neighbors
had not seen her all day.

What did she look like? Well, 26 years
old, five feet two; less than 100 pounds;
reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, very fair
complexion. What was she wearing? Gray,
pin-striped coat and suit, no hat, carrying
a large gray broadcloth handbag. “Got
it?" The lieutenant's tone was crisp and
imperious. His manner was ice-calm; if
he had any nerves they certainly were not

in evidence. "Let me know the minute
you get anything on this!" he snapped.
And with that he turned on his heel and
marched out of police headquarters.

*A cool number, that one!" ejaculated
Bob Cothran, who had remained beyond
his customary departure time, fascinated
by the handsome lieutenant.

“You can say that again, bub!” Ser-
geant Kelsey agreed. “What do you sup-
pose the Army does to these guys? If my
old lady was missin’ I’d be blowin’ 18
fuses! Well, let’s get out a report for the
detective division. Chief Shorter better
get hot on this in the morning, or Lieu-
tenant Epes (Sir!) will come back and
freeze him into a solid cake of ice!”

Chief of Detectives S. S. Shorter did
get hot on it in the morning. We all got
hot on it—and with not precisely the re-
sults we might have anticipated. It didn’t
take us long, of course, to discover that
we had hold of a “cut-glass” case. The
missing girl’s parents showed up in Co-
lumbia from Jacksonville, Florida, almost
immediately, and they and Lieutenant
Epes practically fell into each other’s
arms.

“The lieutenant is like a son to us," the
old gentleman told me. “Such a splendid
young man; a gentleman of the highest
type! He made our little daughter very
happy!”

DIDN'T say anything to this because,

at that moment, the lieutenant was
in our hair—but plenty! And, I was be-
ginning to confess to myself, his attitude
had me puzzled. Of course he was ob-
viously hell-bent to help us find his wife.
He was with my men constantly, dashing
here, there, and the other place. And
suggestions! What he didn't think of just
wasn't in the book. Could his wife be an
amnesia victim? He had his father-in-
law make radio transcriptions which were
broadcast all over the South so that she
might hear his voice and regain her mem-
ory—if she had lost it. Could she have
been kidnaped? Between the families they
could raise almost any reasonable sum,
and they'd be glad to pay, he assured us.
Could she have gotten in a car with
strangers as a prelude to foul play? After
all, she was a tiny, delicate thing! How
about the State Highway Patrol? Couldn't
they help? And so it went. The lieutenant
was busy "helping." He was also getting
downright vulgar in his language and his
imperious demands that we "show some
results, by God! You fellows have simply
got to find the people who are at the bot-
tom of this thing!”

Well, we were trying, in our own blun-

“MY WIFE
IS MISSING!”

Continued from page 19

dering way, and we were keeping our eyes
open as we went along, too. Of course
the lieutenant wasn’t a policeman, so he
probably didn’t quite realize all the things
we were doing. The State Highway Pa-
trol was already working on the case, for
instance, and their ace investigator, John
W. Richardson, was deep in it. So was
Richland County Sheriff T. Alex Heise,
a seasoned officer of 25 years’ experience.
The FBI had been alerted and consulted,
and we had the vigorous co-operation of
Major Larry Gaines, provost marshal at
Fort Jackson, and his astute assistant,
Lieutenant McKenna. Between us, in the
first few days after the disappearance of
Mary Lee Epes, we accomplished a heap
of work and achieved results, too, in a
negative sort of way. For instance:

E established that the missing girl had

made no withdrawals from her bank
immediately prior to her disappearance.
We established that she had been admit-
ted to no nearby hospital, nor was she
registered in any nearby hotel under her
own name or another. We questioned taxi
and bus drivers, made a meticulous check
of railroad stations, and were satisfied in
our own minds that she had not left the
city via any mode of public transporta-
tion. Meanwhile, however, with the lieu-
tenant so handy, naturally we asked him
a few questions:

When he dropped his wife off down-
town that morning, had he just let her
out in the middle of the street? Oh, so he
had pulled in parallel with the curb, and
parked briefly! Well, that certainly was
the considerate thing to do. And by the
way, that restaurant, a cafeteria, was it?
And the name? Harvey’s? Lots of people
have breakfast there regularly, don’t they?
Strange time and place for a young wom-
an to disappear. But then, Mary Lee must
have disappeared at Harvey’s, because
she never arrived at the military supply
store where the lieutenant thought she
intended to shop. And, come to think of
it, Lieutenant, nobody saw her at Har-
vey’s, either; not any of the regular pa-
trons, or those who wait there for the
bus every morning. By the way, about
that parking business, while we think of
it! We've checked that location for five
mornings now, and at no time has it been
possible for anyone to park parallel with
the curb. You must have been right lucky
to find a spot.

In a very few days the hunt for Mary
Lee Epes snowballed into monstrous pro-
portions. Of course we sent out the cus-
tomary circulars containing her descrip-
tion, and her father offered $1,000 reward

for helpful information. The newspapers
were full of the mystery, and very soon
we were flooded with telephone calls from
would-be helpful citizens all over the
South. She had been “seen” in Millen,
Georgia; in Alexandria, Virginia; in a de-
serted house near Columbia (which we
searched) and at Hardeeville, South Caro-
lina, a little town down Savannah way.
The Hardeeville lead looked so promising
that John Richardson and Detective Ser-
geant G. L. Lackey drove down there to
investigate. The lieutenant went with
them but, unfortunately, he fell asleep en
route!

So far as the Columbia Police Depart-
ment was concerned, our search for Mary
Lee Epes was not more than three or four
days old when I put two and two together,
drew my own conclusions, and won at
least the temporary loathing of her
father. “I am convinced,” I had to tell
the old gentleman, “that when we get to
the bottom of this business we will find
that Lieutenant Epes killed’ your daugh-
ter!” Mr. Williams gave me a look of
pure hatred, turned on his heel, and strode
out of my office. He didn’t enter it again
until the case was closed.

Meanwhile, however, our investigation
dragged on for the better part of two
weeks before the representatives of all
co-operating agencies agreed that the time
had come to give Lieutenant Samuel C.
Epes an intensive grilling. At the time,
we hadn’t a scintilla of real evidence that
he had done away with his wife; we didn’t
even know that she was dead. But ex-
perience supplies a sixth sense in such
things, and we all had it. The brutal fact
of the matter was that Sam Epes was
too cool, too calm and too collected to be
innocent! He was overplaying the part of
the crisp Army type.

On February 12th we invited the lieu-
tenant to the Grand Jury room at 1:45
P.M., and we questioned him until nine
o’clock that night. For hours he was by
far the coolest man in the room, and he
treated the rest of us with the sort of
tolerant forbearance you might show a
group of eager school boys. But along
about eight o’clock we found the key
which unlocked—not the innermost sec-
rets of Sam Epes’ heart, but the first level
below the basement, you might say.

“f IEUTENANT,” someone asked, “you
were once stationed in Camp Polk,
Louisiana?”

The lieutenant’s eyes suddenly clouded,
but his voice was icily polite: “That fact
is to be found in my Army record.”

“And you met a young lady while you
were in Louisiana?”

Sam Epes’ body tautened like a com-
pressed spring. It was the first time any
of us had seen him display emotion. “I
met several young ladies!” he snapped.

“You wrote quite a few letters to this
one."

“I don't know what you mean! I ...I

”

“We know all about it, Sam,” another
of the inquisitors interjected. “But we'd
rather have it in your own words. Maybe
there’s nothing to it after all.”

By this time the lieutenant was swal-
lowing convulsively. I have rarely seen a
man go so completely to pieces so fast. “I

wonder if we’re thinking of the same per-
son,” he whispered hoarsely. “Could you
give me a couple of initials?”

“The initials are N. K.”

“No! No! Don’t bring her into it!
Don't even mention her name! Please!
Ill be ruined!”

Sam Epes was ruined and he must have
known it, although, if there was any doubt
about the matter at all, he took good care
of it the next morning. Not that he con-
fessed in a formal sense. Instead he tried
to commit suicide by slashing his throat
and his wrists with a razor. Before doing
so he wrote four farewell letters, includ-
ing one to his inamorata N.K. But Sam
Epes didn’t write a single line of farewell
to his missing wife! And when this damn-
ing oversight was pointed out to him as
he sat, bandaged, on the edge of his bed
in the hospital at Fort Jackson two days
later, the lieutenant decided the time had
come for a last desperate bluff. “All
right,” he said. “Mary Lee is dead. I
didn’t kill her, but I buried her body in
the maneuver area at Fort Jackson. I’m
ready to make a statement.”

Sam Epes’ statement was as clever and
cagey a bit of business as had been his
highhanded “assistance” of the authori-
ties in their hunt for his missing wife.
In essence his story was this: Mary Lee
Epes had been experiencing stomach
pains the Saturday night preceding her
disappearance. For relief she had taken a
number of sodium seconal capsules, he
thought as many as 10, in doses of two
capsules each, spaced out from 10:30 p.m.
until shortly after midnight. Meanwhile
the couple had drunk several highballs
which he mixed, but they had not become
intoxicated.

Sometime early Sunday morning the
lieutenant had awakened to find his wife
lying dead beside him. He had grown
unaccountably terrified, and in his terror
had disposed of the body by bundling it
in a blanket, driving to Fort Jackson, and
burying Mary Lee in a shallow foxhole in
a practice area.

On a cold and raw Valentine's Day Sam
Epes, in an ambulance, headed a caval-
cade of some six or seven cars which
drove to the filled-in foxhole he pointed
out. I helped lift Mary Lee Epes' body
from its grave, and subsequently read
with interest the pharmacological report
which tore Sam's final story to shreds.
Examination indicated that Mary Lee had
been given between 20 and 30 grains of

sodium seconal. And expert medical tes-'

timony indicated that she had been given
the drug because, had she taken it of her
own volition, before she could possibly
have taken 20 grains at the rate of two
capsules every halí-hour, she would have
achieved a condition of unconsciousness
deep enough to permit surgery!

The trial of Sam Epes before Judge
A. L. Gaston was a social and emotional
sensation, to say the least. Both men and
women fainted, and while the jury was
considering its verdict (and the accused
had been removed to an anteroom) bob-
by-soxers kept dropping notes for the
handsome lieutenant at his vacant chair
in the courtroom. One of these was a quo-
tation from St. John, 14:31: “Arise, let
us go hence!"

That's precisely what Sam did! He
went from the courtroom to the South
Carolina State Penitentiary, convicted of
murder in the first degree, and sentenced
to life imprisonment. ***

qnt

"O.K, O.K., just set him down, I'll look at him later."

47

STAG CONFIDENTIAL

Continued from page 35

on your car by 1957 (they'll give you more
wear per mile). . .

QUICKEST WAY TO LOUSE UP a new brake
relining is to go heavy on them right
from the start. . . .

One accident it doesn't seem possible TO
DO ANYTHING ABOUT is when brakes fail on
a steep downgrade. Instructions are: shift
to second or first, apply handbrake and
say your prayers. . . .

MEN OUTDOORS

YOU CAN SLAP 30 NOTCHES ON YOUR RIFLE
STOCK, but unless one of them represents
a dead bear, no young son of yours will
ever believe you're a hunter. Funny part
is, it's more dangerous to hunt caribou.
Bears run the other way, and even when
they're wounded, they'll take off rather
than fight. A black bear is dangerous
when you corner him, but only a special
kind of maniac tries to corner a bear. . . .

African pilots would rather do anything
than take off and land on a jungle landing
Strip. Kite hawks, rhino bulls and groups
of lions have been known to race right
into whirling props of taxiing airplanes.
One pilot had to pick up a district com-

missioner's wife who was expecting a baby. '

He took off down the runway and his props
ran right into and killed—a stork. . ..
You can buy a small battery-light that

clips on to your fishing rod and tells
you when you've got a nibble by BLINKING
ON AND OFF. . . .

A MAN'S WALLET .

THEY'LL STICK YOU TWO BUCKS for a
haircut in Chicago on Saturday . . . Don't
kid yourself. It takes guts to be a mil-
lionaire. Taxes are so murderous that a guy
who raps out a million bucks has got to
earn $3.75 to buy a 75-cent golfball,
.$25,000 to pay for a $5,000 Caddie. . . Don't
feel bad if you're in debt. You're an
average Joe if you're in hock $625. ... .

Price of underwear is catapulting . . . A
good toupee will stand you $300 but one of
those little hair pieces is only $35...
You can't gamble in California, but there's
a loophole that says draw poker for stakes
is O.K. So expect to see DRAW-POKER PARLORS
Shooting up all over the desert around
Palm Springs, rivaling Las Vegas. . ..

DON'T GO AWAY MAD when you get dirty,
mutilated dollars from your bank. The
Treasury Department asked banks to keep
dollars in circulation as long as possible.
It costs almost a penny to pound out a new
dollar bill. ... .

There'll be a new drive to "class up"
uranium stocks, make them seem more legit.
Unless you've got MONEY TO BURN, they're
still risky . . . It's getting tougher every
day for a vet to buy a house. On a $10,000
house, he's got to slap down $200 cash and
pay back his mortgage in 25 years. It used
to was he didn't put down anything, could
take 30 years to pay the mortgage. . ..

Indian officials don't know how to handle
the Nizam of Hyderabad, once the richest
man in the world. He still LEAVES GOLD BARS
AROUND THE PALACE YARD and recently let
rats eat their way through $8.4 million in
Indian bank notes in the palace vault . . .
George Westinghouse patented a new inven-
tion on the average of every six weeks for 48
years during his life. . . .

INSIDE FOR MEN

YOUNG NUDISTS are having their own
activities, conventions, AWAY FROM THE
FOLKS. . . .

DuPont is pouring mucho dough into a
machine or device that'll actually read
people's minds. It can ask people questions,
tell what they're going to say even though
they don't say it. . . .

Norwegian girls, it turns out, are
stricter than American girls WITH THEIR
FIRST KISSES, but once the engagement is
on, they pull all stops out while American
girls generally hold back. . . .

Barbershops around town will give you a
fast "graying-at-the-temples" for around
$1.50 or a blackening of gray locks for
around $25. . . .

Chinese leaders are insisting that gowns
for women must not be too close-fitting
—a little bit bigger than the body of
the person wearing them. ...

MEN AT HOME

There's talk about a rotating filter
that'll adapt your black and white TV set
to color, ONLY STAND YOU $150 . . .
Canadians are batting out sturdy, pre-
fabricated four-room model houses MADE OF
ALUMINUM that sell for $1,000 . . . The
fashion men say it's 0.K. to wear only
tops or bottoms to sleep at night. . . .

YOU'RE A CHUMP if you sand by hand, and
you're a double chump if you don't bother
to sand at all (after a woodworking job.)
You can pick up a good reciprocating
sander for $12-$30 that'11 Save you hours
of horse work. . . .

SHOP TIP: A hammer with a one-piece
forged head and shank is odds on to make
you dead tired. . . .

How to CRACK the education barrier

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49

50

like in the Stockade. Well, it’s no different
from anyplace else—anyplace, that is,
with only men in it. Of course, these are
all guys who’ve gotten into some kind
of trouble. But they’re not killers or
thieves. They’re men who couldn’t hold
their liquor, or talked back to their ser-
geants, or stayed away on leave too long.

You should hear them talk. None of
them made less than $100 a week before
they got in the Army and they all had
Cadillacs. All of them were terrors with
women, and there was no man they
couldn't lick in a fair fight. Tom liked to
brag that way, too, but there was some-
thing in the way he talked, in his manner
and in his very appearance that carried
conviction. He really was tough, and I'll
bet he was handy with women, too, be-
cause he was a handsome man.

Most of the inmates were serving a few
months before going back to duty. It was
different with Tom and me. I was sup-
posed to be transferred to Leavenworth
to serve a three-year sentence. When
Tom finished his six months in the Stock-
ade, the FBI would be waiting for him
with a charge of driving a stolen car
across a state line. So we had at least one
interest in common: escape.

We had it all figured out. Once off the
military reservation, we would steal a car
and set out for Canada. Our main prob-
lem was to get on a work detail together.
The Stockade administration tried to keep
prisoners who were known to be friends
separated during working hours.

Meanwhile, the day set for my transfer
to Leavenworth came nearer.

Our chance came when the detail ser-
geant began calling out volunteer details
in the evening. A ditch was being dug
outside the compound, circling the fence.
Only general prisoners—those awaiting
punitive discharges—were allowed to
work on it. For this, we were exempted
from physical training and drill. The
guards—one for every three prisoners—
were all goof-offs who had been given this
extra duty for fouling up on the daytime
details. They were usually not very alert.

It was already dark when we began
working at six o'clock. We were digging
on the south side of the Stockade. It was
very dark there. A solitary street light
shone on the road about 100 yards away.
Beyond this narrow road was a brush-cov-
ered slope leading down to the river, the
boundary of the military reservation. Two
searchlights played over us continuously
from the guard towers at the corners of
the fence.

After we had been working for half an
hour, Tom whispered to me, “Well, what
do you think?"

I glanced around. The guard, obviously
bored, was staring off into space.

"Let's go," I said.

KEEP AWAY
FROM
THE BLONDE

Continued from page 25

Instantly, with a quick motion, Tom
threw his shovel, blade first, at the guard.
The guard, startled out of his reverie,
dropped his shotgun and threw up his
arms to protect his face.

We ran, fast, with our bodies sloped
forward, as close to the ground as we
could get. We heard confused yells. We
plunged over the bank on the other side
of the road. Now we were in darkness,
and safe. As we slid and ran down the
slope, an ineffectual shotgun blast show-
ered twigs on us from a tree overhead.

The usual escape route was across the
river, which at this season was shallow
and full of sandbars. Instead of taking
this route, we cut to our left as we
reached the bottom of the slope, so that
we were now going east. We stayed close
to the river for about 500 yards. Then
we turned to the north and reclimbed the
bluff above the river.

This brought us right into the busiest
section of the fort, the shopping and rec-
reational center for the families of the
post’s personnel.

It was as quiet there as we had hoped.
We could hear the sirens of MP patrol
cars in the distance. They faded away to
the south and west, following the bank
of the river downstream. It seemed that
we had figured everything out just right.

From here on it was easy. Beside the
post commissary, we found a parked car
with the keys in the ignition.

Tom had studied maps of the post and
he knew what roads to take. In five min-
utes, we were driving off through the
boondocks on a gravel road.

Tom was feeling good. As he drove, he
told me what he would do, if he ever
caught them, to the detail sergeant, the
compound sergeant, the confinement of-
ficer, the assistant confinement officer,
and a couple of the guards. He was driv-
ing fast, a little too fast for a gravel road.

We drove on for over an hour. I don’t
know just when we left the military reser-
vation, for I saw no sign announcing the
boundary. Soon we began passing occa-
sional farmhouses. All the time I kept
looking back nervously, but we were
lucky, no headlights appeared on the road
behind us.

FTER 60 or 70 miles we ran out of
gas. The motor sputtered and died.
“Damn!” said Tom. “That would have
to happen.” He looked around. We
couldn’t see a light anywhere. But the
sky was clear and we could see well
enough to follow the road.

Tom got out and looked up and down
the road.

"Willie," he said, “look in the glove
compartment. There might be a flash-
light." 5

I opened the glove compartment and

felt around inside it. There was a flash-
light, all right, and something else, too.

“Tom,” I said, “we’re in luck. I found
a gun."

“That saves us a lot of trouble. What
kind?”

“A revolver; .38, I think.”

“Anything else?”

“Flashlight, a few rags, some papers.”

“Well, take the gun and the flashlight
and let‘s go. We’re gonna have to do some
walking.” A

It was nice, walking along the road in
the dark. It was the quietest country I
was ever in. The birds had all gone south,
and the crickets and frogs had knocked
off for the winter. It was pretty chilly,
but we were dressed warm.

We hadn’t been walking more than a
quarter of an hour when we spotted the
house. It was set back from the road,
and if there had been trees in front of it
we never would have seen it. But this
wasn’t the country for trees. We could see
the house plainly against the pale star-
light. There were no lights.

HIS was just what we wanted. In a

house there would be food, civilian
clothes, maybe money.

“This is it, cookie,” Tom said. “Let’s
see what we can find.”

“Suppose somebody’s home,” I said.
“These farmers go to bed pretty early.”

“Tt isn’t even nine o’clock yet. Nobody
goes to bed that early.”

We walked up to the front door. Our
combat boots were loud on the wooden
step. We groped for the door handle.

Suddenly the large window to the right
of the door was illuminated. Somebody
had turned on the lights in the front
room.

I wanted to run. Even Tom looked un-
sure of himself as light footsteps ap-
proached the door. Then the door opened
and it was too late to do anything. We
would have to go through with. it;

It was a girl who had opened the door,
a short, rather plump blonde. Her hair
was mussed and she was busily smoothing
down her dress. Her face was very red.

A young man was sitting stiffly on the
living-room sofa, a gawky, freckle-faced
farm kid of maybe 17. His face was red,
too. Obviously a boy-friend, not a hus-
band.

“Yes?” said the girl sharply. “What is
it?" Tom was staring at her, not at all
indifferently. It seemed to make her
nervous.

*Are the folks at home?" Tom asked
her in his most polite tone.

*No, they've gone down to the John-
sons'."

*And when do you expect them back?"

*Not for a couple hours. Did you want
to see them?"

“Not especially," said Tom. He brushed
her aside and walked into the room. I fol-
lowed him in and closed the door behind
me.

“What do you want?" the girl said
shrilly. She was scared and a little mad.

“Just relax, beautiful" Tom said.
"We're not going to bite you."

She looked around helplessly. “Ed—”
she said. The boy on the sofa stood up.

(Continued on page 52)

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Nome.
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Town.

postage prepaid.

(1) Al Leifson, grocer, was one of
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O Excessively

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5l

52

"Well, that's the way the old ball bounces!’ ‘

(Continued from page 50)

He looked at us nervously, as though he
thought he ought to throw us out. But it
was plain he was no match for either of
us, although he was a little taller than me.

I began to reach in my field jacket
pocket for the revolver, but Tom grabbed
my arm to prevent me. He knew he
wouldn’t need it yet.

The boy screwed up a little courage.
“Listen, mister,” he protested, “I don’t
know what you want, but you’d better
say what it is or get out.”

“Make me,” said Tom quietly. He was
enjoying himself.

I guess the presence of the girl made
the boy want to put on a hero act, for
now he did something very foolish. He
tried to swing at Tom. He was an awk-
ward kid, and he telegraphed that punch
all the way to Mexico. Before he could
get well started, Tom landed one on his
jaw. The kid gave a faint grunt, and top-
pled all over the floor.

Tom walked to where the kid’s head
was resting on the floor. He drew back his
foot, aiming for the temple.

“Don’t kill him, Tom,” I said.

Tom laughed. He lowered his foot to
the floor again. Then he grabbed the kid’s
collar to raise his head, and landed an-
other one on his jaw. That boy would
stay out for a long time.

LOOKED at the girl. She had been

edging away from us. Now she stood
in the doorway which apparently led to
the kitchen.

“Come here, sister," Tom said to her.

She just shook her head. Her eyes were
wide and scared. I was beginning to feel
like a heel.

“All we want,” Tom said patiently, is
some information. Like where does your
dad keep his clothes? And where's some
food?"

The girl began to speak, her voice al-
most inaudible. But we could hear *. ..

hall closet . . . upstairs . . ," and that was
enough for us.

“TIl go get the clothes, Willie,’ Tom
said. "You go and see if you can rustle
up some food."

E loped upstairs, two steps at a time.

I walked into the kitchen. The girl
was standing in the doorway. She shrank
against the wall when I walked past
her.

I rummaged through some cupboards
until I found some cans. I took out two
cans of pork and beans and opened them
on the can opener attached to the wall.

“Where are the spoons?” I asked. The
girl pointed to a cupboard drawer. I
drew two spoons from it.

I sat down at the table and began eat-
ing right out of the can. After a few
mouthfuls, I looked up at the girl. She
was still standing to one side in the door-
way. I guess she was afraid someone
would wallop her if she made a motion
or a sound.

"[ wish you'd relax,” I said. "There's
nothing to be scared of. We'll be leaving
in a little while now. So why not try to
enjoy it while it lasts?"

We could hear Tom stamping around
upstairs. She glanced up at the ceiling
fearfully.

*Don't mind my friend," I went on.
“He gets a little rough sometimes. But
he wouldn't hurt you."

With my foot, I pushed out a chair
on the opposite side of the table. “Have
a seat," I told her.

She hesitated a while, but she finally
came over and sat down. She looked at
me as though I were some fantastic ani-
mal in the zoo.

"That's better,” I said. “And don't
look at me that way. I'm really a quiet,
friendly guy." I knew I was talking too
much. I don't think she even heard half
of what I was saying. It was just that I
hadn't talked to a woman in a long time.

Tom came clumping down the stairs

and entered the kitchen. His arms were
full of clothes.

"We're all set," he said, grinning.
"They don't have quite my size, but
these'l do for the road.”

He tossed the clothes on top of the
pantry and sat down at the table. He
took a mouthful of beans. “I could use
something hot," he said. “Say, sweetie,
could you fix us up a cup of coffee?"

The girl rose silently and walked to-
ward the stove. As she passed Tom's
chair, he patted her bottom in a friendly
way. She merely quickened her steps. She
didn't even look around.

“POM,” I said, “save that till we get to
Canada."

“Anything you say, Captain.” He
grinned again. There was an odd look in
his eyes, one I’d never seen there before.
It was as though he were slightly drunk.
It made me feel uncomfortable. Tom was
always an unpredictable guy.

He cocked an eye at me. “You two
seem to be getting along pretty well.
What’s her name?”

“I don't know,” I said. "She's not
much of a talker."

"That's the kind of woman I:ike. Well,
whatever your name is"—he turned his
chair to face her—"how did your boy
friend get over here?”

She raised her head. “How do you
mean?” she asked sullenly.

“I mean, did he have a car?”

“Ves.”

“What did he do with it?”

“He parked it out in the back.” She
pointed toward the kitchen’s back door.

“Thanks, sugar. That’s all I wanted
to know.”

He walked into the living room. When
he came back, he was carrying a ring of
keys.

“Got what you wanted, I take it,” I
said.

“Yep. Of course,” he added to the girl,
who was still standing by the stove, “what
I really want is what you were giving
your boy friend when we came up.”

She flushed to the roots of her hair.

“We were talkin'," she said in a muf-
fled voice.

ST thats what. I mean.” He
laughed. “I ain’t had any conversa-
tion in three months.”

“Tom,” I said, “why don’t you lay
off?”

He looked at me and he wasn’t smil-
ing. “Look, little man, you leave me be
and TIl leave you be. The trouble with
you," he added more jocularly, “is that
you don't know how to enjoy yourself."
With that, he walked out the door.

As soon as he had gone, the girl sank
back into her chair. For a few moments,
she was silent. Out in back, we heard a
car door slamming.

Then I heard her murmuring. Her
voice was so faint I could hardly under-
stand what she said. It sounded like,
“What’s it all about?"

“You'll hear about it tomorrow," I
said. “We pulled out of the Stockade at
Fort Clark a couple of hours ago. We're
heading for—home," I finished lamely.

(Continued on page 54)

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54 Ùe a mom m a es ee ee es ed

(Continued from page 52)

Suddenly I realized I had almost said too
much.

“How do you expect to get away with
it?” Her voice was more confident.

“It shouldn’t be hard. The MPs and
the FBI will be looking for us, but I
think we can keep ahead of ’em.” I
liked talking to her. She was—well, in the
first place she was a woman, and besides
that, her silence made her seem a sym-
pathetic listener.

So I explained a little more. “That’s
why we don’t want to hurt anybody. That
would just attract attention from the
civilian law. Your boy friend will be all
right. He just got knocked out. It hap-
pens to all of us once in a while."

The corner of her mouth widened a bit.
She almost smiled.

“That’s it,’ I said. “Do that a little
more."

She couldn't quite achieve a smile,
but her voice was a shade friendlier.

“I don't care about that,” she said
looking scornfully at the living room.
“You seem—all right. But your friend—"
she shuddered. “I think he's crazy."

I wished she hadn't said that. I
knew what she meant. Tom was beginning
to worry me, too.

"He's been cooped up for three
months," I said. “You can't expect —"

The back door opened. Tom came in.

"That's quite a hotrod your boy
friend's got," he said. “We’ll be lucky
i it holds together till we reach the state
ine.’

“How much food do you want to bring
along, Tom?” I asked him.

“Better bring plenty,” he said. “We’re
going to have a passenger.”

I stared at him: “Huh?”

“Were bringing Sweetie-pie with us.”

The girl gasped and gaped at us, open-
mouthed.

“Tom,” I protested, you're crazy. We
don't want the local law on our tails. Be-
sides—"

*Besides what, Galahad?" He was still
grinning faintly, but there was anger in
his voice. *You two have been getting
along so nicely while I wasn't around.
I want to give her a chance to get ac-

quainted with a real man for a change."

“Tom,” I said, “you can't do it."

"Who's gonna stop me?"

“By God, I am!”

He rested his hands on his hips and
looked at me. It was as if he couldn’t
believe his eyes. “You! You little—!
Don’t kid yourself, Willie, my boy. Do
you think you can stand up to me? I
could break you in half.” -

He was right, of course,

“Tom,” I said desperately, “you're big-
ger and tougher than me, but you need
me. You don’t need her.”

“That’s what you think. I haven’t been
with a woman for three months and I’m
not going to wait for three more.” He
began to walk around the table toward
me. “Willie, am I gonna have to twist
your arm? I can make you do anything
I want you to do.”

He was a few feet away from me,
coming slow. I put my hand in my field
jacket pocket. I didn’t have time to take
the revolver. out. I just gripped the
handle, and, before I knew what had hap-
pened, I pulled the trigger.

It didn’t make much noise, just a
brief, sharp crack like a hammer hitting
hard wood. I felt no kick. For a second,
I couldn’t believe I had actually fired it.

Then I saw that Tom had been hit.
He stumbled against the table and
slumped slowly to the floor. His eyes
were open and blood was pouring from
his mouth. I think he was dead when he
hit the floor.

For a moment, I just stood there,
wondering what had happened. Then
the girl started screaming. It sounded as
though her voice was coming from a long
way off. I could smell my field jacket
where the gun’s blast had scorched it.

Then I turned and ran from the room.
I went out into the darkness, running
and stumbling. For a long time, I could
hear the girl’s scream, growing fainter
until it sounded like a baby’s wail.

Sometime before dawn I stumbled on-
to the railroad tracks and caught a freight
lumbering by.

I don’t think I'll make it. Canada is
still a long way from me. And, some-
how, freedom doesn't seem to mean as
much as it did. ***

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was sweeping the country. I decided to
build racing cars. It was exciting. Be-
fore I realized it, I was spending so much
time building and racing “Muntz Specials"
my agency went on the rocks. I was broke.

I got into the pin ball and slot machine
business. I worked hard to build up a
route. When I had it worked up and it was
starting to pay off, Chicago racketeers
moved in on me and squeezed me out.

I was 26 years old and flat broke. I
decided to hitch-hike to a warm climate.
I flipped a coin to see if it would be Cali-
fornia or Florida. California it was. When
I arrived, there was no Chamber of Com-
merce or band out to meet me. I landed
there strictly C.O.D.

I washed dishes, picked fruit, dug
ditches, milked cows, any kind of work
to keep alive. By the following spring I'd
saved up enough to buy six old cars. I
rented a vacant lot in Glendale, near Los
Angeles. I polished the cars daily and
kept them parked at the front of the lot
where I had erected a huge sign MUNTZ
USED CARS.

I was confident of making a success for
I had read that the Los Angeles area had
more automobiles per capita than any
place in the world. But when I didn't sell
any cars—everybody seemed to rush past
without stopping—I decided maybe I was
wrong, maybe Californians already had
too many cars. The landlord stopped in
and took an old Packard I had in lieu of
rent. That left me five cars.

After the bombing of Pearl Harbor
evervbody was talking war and no one
was buying cars. I decided I'd have to
close my business. It was then that Gen-
eral Chiang Kai-shek came into my life.

A fellow stopped in my lot and rented
space to park 13 cars. They were right-
hand-drive cars en route to the Orient, one
a long, black, powerful, bullet-proof Lin-
coln limousine for the generalissimo. The
cars had been stopped en route on ac-
count of military supplies having a pri-
ority.

After newspapers printed pictures and
stories on Chiang Kai-shek's car people
flocked to my lot to see it. Occasionally
one would buy a used car. Now I was
able to eat three square meals a day.

When I saw what happened after the
publicity was given the general's car I
came to realize the value of advertising.
But somehow I just couldn't lay up a re-
serve to buy some.

I decided to do something about it
anyway. I had heard of a young man
from New York named Mike Shore who
was doing a whiz of a job getting pub-
licity for night club entertainers in Holly-
wood. This chap even wrote songs as a
hobby.

I had lunch with Mike one day to see
if he'd get some publicity for my used car

HOW I MADE
A MILLION

Continued. from page 41

lot. He's a genius when it comes to ideas
and immediately mapped out a terrific
program. We shook hands to close the
deal Mike didn't say anything about
money nor did I want to show my igno-
rance by asking questions. I merely told
him to shoot the works. After all I was
just a small-town boy. j
Mike didn't know that all the capital
I had was what I had in my pocket to
pay the luncheon check and a few old
cars on my Glendale lot. This was an
era when everybody was expected to
have money, but I was an exception.

E started a wacky advertising cam-

paign of self-ridicule, calling me Mad-
man Muntz. The publicity and advertising
campaign turned out to be the biggest
thing that ever hit Southern California.
It brought so many customers that we
had to start a campaign to buy cars to
take care of the demand.

From that time on I became the Napo-
leon of screwballs—the automotive mad-
man. In addition to radio and newspapers
we used 176 large billboards in the Los
Angeles area. On each advertisement I
was shown as a Napoleon character,
wearing a three-cornered hat, spurred
boots and long, red underwear. Skywriters
were hired to spell out my name in the
sky with trails of smoke.

The first billboard ad announced, “I
wanna give 'em away—but Mrs. Muntz
won't let me. SHE'S CRAZY!” At the

bottom of the sign it said, “Outselling
every other automobile dealer in
America."

You’re probably asking how I got all
this advertising without starting out with
money. The zany sales campaign was so
successful that I sold so many cars in
the first month I was able to discount all
the bills. At the end of two months I
was able to crash the famous Automobile
Row in downtown Los Angeles. I bought
a corner building from Charles S. Howard,
pioneer Buick dealer, worth about $300,-
000. Mr. Howard is probably best remem-
bered as owner of Seabiscuit, the horse
that:earned $437,730 for its owner. When
I heard of all the money made by this
horse I came to the conclusion I should
have bought myself a horse rather than
those midget racing cars back at Elgin!

When I moved down on Automobile
Row the other dealers didn't welcome me.
To them I was just a young chap who had
been lucky and won fame and fortune
by using zany advertising methods. Boy,
did these sedate rivals give me a cold
shoulder when I erected a sign in front
of my business re-naming Los Angeles'
historic Figueroa Street “Muntz Boule-
vard,” even using it on my letterheads.

(Continued on page 58)

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(Continued from page 56)

But the public loved it and it got so I
was expected to attend Hollywood parties,
night clubs and civic affairs dressed in
my Napoleon outfit.

The title of the largest automobile
dealer in America had long been claimed
by an old auto firm in Los Angeles and
when I used it on my billboards the Bet-
ter Business Bureau sent a reprimand for
my bragging. To vindicate myself I re-
ferred them to the Motor Vehicle De-
partment showing where I had sold $867,-
000 worth of used cars in a single month.

Next they dressed me down for my
type of billboard advertising, especially
where I said, “I buy ’em retail, sell ‘em
wholesale—more fun that way.”

I had the letter reprinted and gave it
wide circulation. My advertising was so
fantastic that the public could not take
it seriously. They loved it, and they
seemed to take the zany Napoleon char-
acter we originated to their hearts. They'd
watch eagerly to see what changes would
be made on the billboards.

My name was a local household word.
My advertising campaign had swept over
Southern California like an epidemic.
Radio comedians like Bob Hope started
using my name for laughs on their radio
programs. Columnists like Hedda Hopper,
Louella Parsons, Walter Winchell, Leon-
ard Lyons, Earl Wilson, Florabel Muir
and Jimmie Fidler mentioned my name.
Because of my popularity at Hollywood
parties they’d call me the celebrities’
celebrity.

Older auto dealers along Auto Row pre-
dicted I’d soon fold up, that I was a flash
in the pan. But I fooled them—I ex-
panded, taking on the Kaiser-Frazer dis-
tribution for Southern California and New
York City. I installed 60 dealers in Cali-
fornia and 71 in New York and was sell-
ing 17 percent of the factory’s output.

Each comment, praise or criticism, was
publicity for the car business. The Grif-
fith Park News took this dig at me:

"MUN T Z!—He’s swept the country
like the Fuller Brush Man. According to
the latest statistics, he's done more to
return people to work, following the flu
epidemic, than sulfa drugs. They get tired
of listening to the same old thing. Radio
repair men have reported a greater vol-
ume in fixing up sets hurled at defense-
less walls than in many years. Frankly,
for muntz and muntz we've been wanting
to meet Muntz, so we could puntz Muntz,
and make muntzmeat out of Muntz.

*And so this squawk amuntz to this.
He's muntz behind in changing his ra-
dio program. Recommendation: that he
change his slogan to, 'Sell your car to
Muntz, you duntz! " ;

Operators of sightseeing tours routed
their buses to give tourists a peek at my
home and used car lots. I had parking
space for 150 cars at my Beverly Hills
home. I was always expected to furnish
a bit of lunacy at a party. I tried not to
disappoint them. My parties were called
"The Party Of The Muntz" I gave a
party one night for a large group of movie
people. While their cars were parked I
had large signs painted on them. When
the owners came out to get into their
limousine, station wagon or sport car

they found it painted up telling how much
“Madman” Muntz would pay them for it.
Several took me up.

When I lost an election bet to Jerry
Colonna he made me don a horse collar
and pull him down Hollywood Boulevard
in a fringed buggy. He invited Jane Far-
rar and Jane Wyman along for the ride
to make it more difficult. I'd gladly have
pulled these girls all over the town, bet
or no bet.

In school I had read the story about
Lady Godiva. I decided if she could get
so much publicity riding a horse I could,
too. Godiva was a lady in every sense of
the word, her modesty matched only by
her courage. She was her own press agent;
while I had Mike Shore. She released the
story of her jaunt to insure privacy, urg-
ing the citizens to close their shutters and
play dead until she was safely back in her
boudoir. Mike advertised to bring out a
crowd.

Riding a white steed, the lady was clad
only in her birthday suit, her long, thick
tresses, and a modest blush. I was mount-
ed on a sway-backed, mangy nag, dressed
in my Napoleon outfit with my red under-
wear decorated with the phrase, E pluri-
bus Muntz. I rode down busy Sunset
Boulevard, waving acknowledgments to
the laughing thousands who filled the side-
walks. Godiva the Beautiful rode down
the deserted streets of Coventry.

SOLD my auto business in 1947 and

threw my lot into a completely new
field—television. Many said I'd lose my
shirt, but I had confidence in myself and
the new industry. I started to manufac-
ture Muntz TV sets in California, later
moving to the Chicago area to be nearer
supplies. It wasn't long before I was turn-
ing out over $50,000,000 worth of sets a
year. It was my aim to give the public the
largest screens for the least amount of
money.

And I intend doing that with color sets,
too. We're all geared and ready to swing
into color production whenever the broad-
casters turn it loose. Color sets will be
rolling off our assembly line like dough-
nuts out of a doughnut machine.

After introducing my 27-inch TV set,
I was in a New York night club. One of
the entertainers, a sad-eyed magician, rec-
ognized me and came down to my table.
"You're ruining my act, Muntz. You're
putting me out of business," he said. “The
image is so big now on your sets the pub-
lic is catching onto my tricks."

Ive worked hard all my life and had
my share of setbacks. I'll admit I have
appreciated it when various recognitions
for my business ability came my way, in-
cluding the Horatio Alger Award and the
Business Oscar. The latter I received,
along with men like Paul G. Hoffman and
President Eisenhower, for "achieving suc-
cess despite adversity.”

I've spent a small fortune in trying to
make people believe I’m crazy. I have had
a lot of fun playing the Napoleonic char-
acter and I believe the public has gotten
a lot of fun out of it, too.

Sometimes I wonder if my campaign to
make people believe I’m crazy has been
a success or not, for quite often I’ll over-
hear someone laugh and say, “Sure, Earl
Muntz is crazy—crazy like a fox!" $@@

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self. I'll know
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saying and save
money.” —
R. Bankstron,
Thomaston, Ga.

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that 1 have continued my
study, It has been invalu-
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—Paula Brown, New York.

opened for me

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—

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Learns Perfect Accont

“TIl always remember the
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Started Thousands Speaking

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Learns Spanish in No Time
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I feel that know-

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J. Dubois, Esquinalt, Can,

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è CORTINA ACADEMY, Dept. 702
Tries Other Courses — French Course Increases E 136 W. 52nd Street, New York 19, N. Y.
Decides on Cortina Travel Pleasure © Please send me a FREE sam
“I tried other courses before “Your French g in: (check Language wanted
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Your records are clearer came in goo « 5 ITALIAN O JAPANESE
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compartment door and told pretty much
the same story:

"I'm afraid we've been hemmed in by
a snowslide and we may be here for a
while. There's nothing to be alarmed
about; there's plenty of food aboard and
the heating system will be kept going."

I looked from his boots, still covered
with snow, to his eyes as he talked to me.
And I said, “When do you think we'll
get out?"

He didn't answer for quite a while.
Then he said, “I don't know, Mr. Cleary.
We'll never get out by ourselves, I can
tell you that, and as long as this storm
keeps blowing they'll never be able to get
any kind of equipment up here."

FTER he left, I walked up to the club
car. I needed a drink—badly—and I
needed to see some other faces so I
wouldn't feel so damned alone. On the
way, I stopped to look out, but there was
nothing to see but snow, tons and tons of
snow.

I left my order at the bar and wedged
into a seat between a well-dressed woman
of 35 or so and a fat man who kept
trying to light his cigar, and never did
manage it in all the time I was there. It
was plain that they had all gotten the
word in the club car—there must have
been 40 or 50 people there—and each one
was digesting it in his own peculiar way.
There were plenty of frightened faces,
but there was also some loud laughter,
greased by a free flow of liquor.

*Have you heard anything more?"
asked my rich-looking lady friend, finger-
ing her fur piece.

“Nothing except that we're blocked by
snow," I said. "I don't even know where
we are."

“Railroad’ll hear plenty from me about
this," snarled the fat man. “Hell of a
nerve."

I couldn't help smiling: at this point
even a touch of comic relief was mighty
welcome. Then the conductor came in and
instantly a babble of voices, all punc-
tuated with question marks, rose to meet
him. He held up both hands:

“Please, folks. Please." The sound died
down. “There is practically nothing more
I can tell you besides what I've already
said. We're stuck all right, but there's
nothing to worry about."

“Where the hell are we?" someone
shouted from the back of the car.

“Were in the Donner Pass, about 20
miles from the nearest town, Emigrant
Gap. But word has already gone out and
all we can do now is wait. As far as meals
are concerned, they'll be served at the
regular time, but we'll all have to share
and share alike until we get some definite
word on how long we'l be here. Please
bear with us. Please be patient."

TRAIN DELAYED—
MAYBE FOREVER

Continued from page 30

Fat Boy waddled to his feet and charged
for the conductor and I could see that
forefinger of his poised for a few good
shakings, but all he got for his pains was
a firm, "Sorry, sir, that's all I have to
say." The conductor turned and walked
out and, for a minute or two, the silence
in that club car was charged with raw
tension. When the babble broke out again,
I downed my drink and went back to
my car.

My berth was made up—add Pullman
porters to mailmen when you talk about
neither rain nor snow interfering with a
job to be done—and I climbed in, al-
though sleep wasn't very likely. I found
myself thinking about my wife and the
kids and insurance policies and wills.
Later, when I began to doze, it was worse:
I was at the bottom of an icy mountain,
straining to get to the top, almost reach-
ing it, then slipping and sliding all the
way to the bottom. I'd awake shivering
with cold and pull the blankets up around
my ears, but it didn't help much.

A dark and dismal day was just break-
ing when I awoke for good—still shiv-
ering. It couldn’t have been more than 50
degrees in that compartment and, shaking
like a dish of jello, I dressed all the way
to my overcoat and muffler. I went to
brush my teeth, but no water ran from
the tap. I started for the diner.

There was a long line of people waiting.
As I walked up, the man in front of me
turned and asked, “Heard anything?”

“What?” I said, and then I realized
what he meant. “No,” I told him, “I
haven’t heard anything.”

The line moved quickly. Once I got
inside, I found out why: breakfast con-
sisted of canned peaches and milk, period.
Under normal circumstances, the City of
San Francisco would have completed its
journey the day before, and I couldn’t
help wondering how much more food—of
any kind—was still aboard.

The day passed in a blur of white,
anxious faces, blankets and overcoats and
the penetrating, never-ending cold. There
was no news, no answer to the same ques-
tion asked a thousand times and nothing
strong enough to hang a hope on except
that they were working on the heating
system and thought they’d have it work-
ing again soon. They were whistling in
the dark, though, and it would get a lot
colder before it got warm.

That night, in the club car, the con-
ductor made an announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you'll
understand this; I hope you'll co-operate.
We're closing the bar permanently—or at
least until we get some definite word. The
doctor advises me that alcohol will only
lower your resistance to the cold, so I
think this is a logical step. It's for your
own good."

That started a mild panic. It wasn’t the
loss of the liquor—although the strength
that comes in a bottle was bracing a goad
many of us—but the sudden realization
that we were in bad trouble. Up to now,
there was a good deal of pretending going
on, both private and public, but there
wasn’t anything to pretend about now. I
saw men pale and I heard women cry.
Deep in my own stomach, a knot sud-
denly grew tighter and my heart began
to pound.

Wlien the hell was it going to end?
Were we ever going to get out of here?

But outside the window the answer was
the same: sweeping winds drove the ever-
falling snow; drifts grew higher—they
now stood taller than the train—and the
sky was not even visible.

I started back toward my compartment
and smelled the gas in the first car I came
to. In not more than a few seconds of
inhaling it I felt dizzy. And as I leaned
against a wall and tried to collect my
"senses, a scream of pure terror tore down
the passageway. I ran toward it blindly,
afraid and yet goaded by a force that
didn't seem to come from my body.

“Help! Help!”

A woman stood by the open door of
the last compartment.

*What's the matter?” I shouted.

“My husband .. . gas . . I’m fainting.”

She staggered back and fell to the floor,
half covering the man who already lay
there. The smell of gas was overpowering
and, with my last resources, I picked up
a chair and smashed the car window.

Snow swirled in and, in an instant, the

compartment was bitterly cold. But I
didn’t care. I sucked the clean air into my
lungs, trying desperately not to throw up.

The woman came to first. Together,
we got the man up on the Pullman seat
and I slapped his wrists until his eyes
opened. That’s when I realized that the
entire car was alive with screaming and
shouting. I heard glass smashing and
groans and one voice, crying over and
over, “Help me! For God’s sake, help
me!”

N 15 minutes, it was all over. The gas,

seeping out of the damaged heating
system, had leaked into two cars. Every-
one in both cars had been accounted for
and moved into other sleepers. The con-
ductor made another little speech about
doubling up and sharing and co-operation
in “these trying circumstances.”

But the really important thing was that
with windows in two cars smashed open to
the zero cold of the night, the entire train
leveled off to a temperature of about 30
degrees. That might be all right for a
quick walk around the block; for any
sustained period of time it was deadly.

When I got back to my compartment,
the lady with the fur piece was sitting
on the edge of my berth wrapped in two
blankets.

“Look—” she began.

“I know," I said. “It’s all right. I'll
have the porter make up the upper.”

But there was an unspoken plea in her
eyes. She didn’t have to say anything—
I don’t suppose she could have—and I
didn’t have to answer.

“All right,” was all I said and, both of
us still wearing all our clothes and
swathed in four blankets, we got into the
lower, put our arms around each other
and, still trembling, still cold somewhere
deep inside of us, we tried to sleep.

I had never seen this woman before I
boarded the City of San Francisco. She
never told me her name and I didn't ask
for it. I have never seen her since. Yet
for two nights, we slept together and

'clung together in a desperate attempt to

retain a little warmth against the bitter-
ness of the cold that was everywhere on
that doomed train. Nor were we the only
ones. ‘

By Tuesday, the second full day of our
imprisonment by snow, a general feeling
of tension had given way to one of hope-
lessness. In the club car, men talked
reasonably and logically about the seem-
ing impossibility of help reaching us,

“Look,” said a man whose name you
would recognize in an instant if I told
it, “not even a man on skis could get into
this pass as long as the storm lasts. Then
how are they going to get heavy equip-
ment in? How are they going to get us
out?”

“Maybe they could fly helicopters in,”
said another man, not at all as though
he really thought they could.

“Through this blizzard? And suppose
they could. How many of us have the
strength left to hoist ourselves up a heli-
copter ladder? Have you? Could any of
the women do it? Forget about helicop-
ters, my friend.”

The lady with the fur piece reached

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LI
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L| Newspaper Institute of America 1
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i Send me, without cost or obligation, your &
1 Writing Aptitude Test and further informa- i
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WE a a ERE TT E E A RIS Zone’. States AE

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Copyright 1955 Newspaper Institute of America

él

62

PROFIT
from the
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for my hand. It was so numb with cold
that I could barely feel her touch.

That night, we ate the last of the food.

Back in my compartment, I was just
beginning to arrange the blankets when
I heard a sudden, violent thrashing from
the compartment next door. For an in-
stant my roommate and I just looked at
each other, then the sounds mounted.
Furniture crashed and the harsh, half-
strangled curses of a man in agony beat
against the wall.

I ran next door: it was my visitor of
that first evening and he was in the grip
of a violent frenzy. The compartment had
been totally wrecked and now he stood
in the center of the room, half-naked in
the freezing cold, saliva running from his
mouth, tearing the hair from his head.

I grabbed him from behind and pinned
his arms. Then I wrestled him to the
floor and, half-sitting on him, I panted
out an order to my lady: “Get the doctor.
Tell him to bring morphine."

She ran. All the time she was gone, the
addict—for that's what I had recognized
him for—thrashed and moaned and, in-
termittently, spat out the single word:
“Shot!”

In another minute, the doctor was
there. Deftly he inserted his hypodermic
needle and, only instants later, the man
was calm and quiet. I left the doctor
alone with him and went back to my
compartment. The woman was crying
softly.

“T’ve never seen anything like that,”
she whispered.

“The world’s full of them. He looks
pretty prosperous but he got a tough
break, being trapped here without a
supply.'

“We all got a tup break, didn't we?"
she said.

diti

"Let's see... | KNOW I have a gallon of gas in here somewhere."

Shouts in the passageway awakened us
the next morning. I ran to the door and
grabbed someone rushing by.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

“Helicopter,” he cried. “Storm’s over."

I ran back and told her. Her face
trembled between tears and laughter and
together we raced for the club car. Vir-
tually everyone aboard was jammed
around the conductor as he worked to
open a canvas sack: it was full of canned
food. At the bottom was a note:

"Snowplows less than a mile from you
now. Should have all off train by after-
noon. Courage."

Men slapped each other's backs. They
laughed and embraced one another. It
was ending. The nightmare was over.

And none too soon. By the time the
tractors reached the train at 3:30 Wednes-
day afternoon, more than a dozen of the
passengers were in pretty bad shape from
exposure, hunger and shock. The tractors
carried us down to the highway where a
fleet of 10 cars and two trucks had fol-
lowed the plows and, as each car was
loaded and sped off toward warmth and
safety, another small cheer went up.

Y lady friend and I didn't travel in

the same car and, as I said, I’ve
never seen her again. But just before
she left, she came to kiss me.

"We've never even done that, have
we?" she said.

“No, we haven't."

“But we shared something that even
your wife or my husband wouldn't—
couldn't—understand. Thanks for being
there."

Then she was gone and I began think-
ing out an answer to give my wife when
I returned to Chicago and she asked,
*What's new?" ***

Do You Make These
Mistakes in English?

Sherwin Cody's remarkable invention has enabled more than
150,000 people to correct their mistakes in English. Only 15
minutes a day required to improve your speech and writing.

ANY persons use such ex-
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invited as well as myself." Still
others say "between you and I" in-
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is astonishing how often "who" is
used for "whom" and how fre-
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pronunciations as "for MID able,"
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or "m's" or "rs" or with "ie" or
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are lifeless, monotonous, humdrum.

Why Most People Make Mistakes

What is the reason so many of us are
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to express their meani adequately?
The reason for the deficiency is clear.
Sherwin Cody discovered it in scientific
“tests, which he gave thousands of times.
Most persons do not write and speak
good Englisb simply because tbey never
formed tbe babit of doing so.

What Cody Did ai Gary

The formation of any habit comes
only from constant practice. Shake-
speare, you may be sure, never studied
tules. No one who writes and speaks
correctly thinks of rules when he is do-
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Here is our mother-tongue, a lan-
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and without which we should all still
be muttering savages! Yet some schools,
by wrong methods, have made it a study
to be avoided—the hardest of tasks in-
stead of the most fascinating of games!
For years it has been a crying disgrace.

In that point lies the real difference -

between Sherwin Cody and these schools!
Here is an illustration: Some time ago
Mr. Cody was invited by the author of
the famous Gary System of Education to
teach English to:all upper-grade pupils
in Gary, Indiana, by means of unique
practice exercises.

SHERWIN CODY

Mr. Cody secured more improvement in
tbese E ils in five weeks than previ-
ously been obtained by similar pupils
in two years under old methods. There
was no guesswork about these results.
They were proved by scientific compari-
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more interesting still was the fact that
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The basic principle of Mr. Cody’s
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100% Self-Correcting Device

Suppose he himself were standing for-
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Correcting Device does exactly this. It
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There are no rules to memorize.

Only 15 Minutes a Day

Nor is there very much to lenin. In Mr.
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light some highly astonishing facts about English.

For instance, statistics show that a list of
sixty-nine words (with their repetitions) make
up more than balf of all our speech and letter
writing.

Obviously, if one could learn to spell, use

pronounce these words correctly, one would
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: Similarly, Mr. Cody proved that there were
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Finally, he discovered that twenty-five ical
ertors in grammar constitute nine-tenths of our
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When the study of English is made so simple
it becomes- clear that progress can be made in
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from time usually spent in profitless reading or
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Free—Book on English

It is impossible in this brief review to give |

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you, send for the book, "How You Can Master
Good English in 15 Minutes a Day."

Merely mail the coupon, a letter or card
for it now. fo agent will call.) SHERWIN
CODY IN ENGLISH, 732 Central
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ally use the correct form and the
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undershorts and shirt, I churned toward
that hatch cover, vised wet fingers around
one corner and hung on desperately.

From the darkness Don gasped,
tank!”

Off the starboard something hulked
blacker than the night itself. It was the
empty bait tank, torn loose but still
afloat, its top bobbing a few inches above
water. Tied to the box, I knew, were our
jew-fish lines. I let go the hatch, stroked
toward the bait box, felt a line against my
half-naked body and grasped it. Somehow
the others worked the hatch cover toward
me. We made fast. One by one, drenched
and shivering, they got up top.

“Come on!” Don bellowed.

I shook my head. “Weigh too much.
Three’s all that box'll hold. I'll stick with
the hatch.”

I doubt whether any of us saw Betsy
Anne slip into her watery grave. We were
too busy trying to stay alive. Last time I
glimpsed her, she was reared up vertically,
her stern thrust a few feet above water.
But we heard her die—heard the eerie
shrill of her two bilge alarms, the one
monitoring water level, the other engine
pressure.

After that we just hung on, jabbering
to keep up our spirits. Don spoke some
Spanish. He managed to calm the Mexi-
cans, whom we’d taken aboard six days
before at Ensenada. They were old-hand
fishermen and, like Don and me, figured
to share in the catch. Now the ton and a
half we had aboard were inside the Betsy
Anne, 100 fathoms below.

For an hour and a half we waited for
the help which never came. We shouted
ourselves hoarse. Somehow it made us
feel warmer, the cold less biting, the sea
less fearsome. Mostly we talked of sur-
vival—how long we could hold out—how
we could reach Cape San Lazaro’s light
which, sweeping seaward, perched 1,400
feet above the reefs.

“How far?” Don yelled.

“Took bearings just before we floun-
dered,” I bellowed back, “Four and a half
miles, five at most.”

Don shouted that he’d try it. He’d swim
ashore, get help. Right off I was pretty
sure he wouldn’t make it. Pretty sure, too,
that he knew he wouldn’t. Maybe he
figured drowning was better than slow
death by exposure, better than slipping
silently into the sea.

“Didja ever swim that far?” I shouted.

“No!”

A couple of big ones reached up sud-
denly and swept the Mexicans off the box.
They went under but surfaced. Churning
like mad, they beat back to where Don
crouched. He hefted them up top. Another
100 feet and they’d have followed the
Betsy Anne. Neither of the Mexicans
were up to a five-miler—that for sure. But

“Bait

THEY WATCHED
ME SWIM AWAY

Continued from page 33

somebody had to...
lowed.

Don knew I’d lifeguarded some, but
that was back 20 years before. He also
knew I was nearly 60, years from my
prime.

He cursed, bawled that I shouldn’t. I
wasn’t a kid any more, he shouted. But I
put it to him straight.

“Look, if you don’t think you can make
it, you’ll be no good to yourself nor to us.”

That sobered him.

“Yeah,” he agreed, shivering, “but can

ou?”

“Don’t know .. .
try!”

That’s how it began. As a kid T’d been
a strong swimmer. Pd put in a stint as
San Diego lifeguard. But guards seldom
stroked more than 500-600 yards off-
shore. With a long swim ahead, we called
for a surf boat. Well, there was a long
swim ahead—and the closest boat was 600
feet straight down.

There wasn’t any sense waiting longer.
It was about nine P.M. and though the
moon was showing, the wind hadn't slack-
ened. The sea was building, the swells
cresting higher with every hour. I told
them to hang on, to stick together. The
tank would float for days. I expected to
bring help—if I made it—within 10, may-
be 12, hours.

Mas bless you!" I croaked and shoved
off.

I never saw them again. Days later the
empty bait box floated in below Santa
Maria bay, down coast a way. It was
empty, its top seaswept. No bodies were
ever found. :

Arms numb, I stroked shoreward, try-
ing to keep to the troughs, trying to pace
myself. There'd be no stopping, I knew,
and little chance to float in that sea.

Even if I managed the five miles,
Chances of beaching were slim. For from
the sea rose a perpendicular, breaker-
gouged cliff. And before it lay a jagged
reef, blockading the quarter-mile sandy
strand that flanked the cliffs to the
north.

“TU try it," I bel-

don't know "less I

UT first—those five black miles.
Doggedly I stroked toward the light.
Often I lost its taunting beam, as black
brine slammed over me. I fought free,
sucked a lungful of air, kept going. I
gulped seawater by the gallon. Ugly
combers tore at me, broke my stride,
spoiled my pace. The endless terror of
the thing would have been enough. But I'd
lost my specs and I'm nearsighted. Every-
thing blurred, everything but the combers.
They were close around me and savagely
in focus.
In my mind throbbed an endless chant.
“Make it. Got to make it. Got to.” That
chant kept me going, kept my arms mov-

ing mechanically, like pistons. After a
while there was no feeling, just numb-
ness. There was no feeling anywhere.
Only my mind seemed alive, and all the
pain seemed centered there. I thought of
my wife and kids back in San Diego. And
I thought of Betsy Anne, how with one
shudder she’d taken green water. How
she’d heeled low to port—and kept heel-
ing. I swam and thought. There’d been
the warnings, yacked back and forth over
marine radios, one fishing boat talking to
another, as always when men fish the lone-
ly Pacific.

“Wind and sea’s abuildin’” helmsmen
had told one another. But it wasn’t any-
thing like the Tampicos that sometimes
strike the Baja California coast. It was
just a stiff northwester, but somehow it
had built and built, driving giant waves
before it.
` I was at the wheel—or rather, at the
Kirsten photoelectric pilot—when it hap-
pened. Betsy Anne was rigged "modern,
with a fathometer, radiotelephone and
autopilot. She was a trim 38-footer and
worth seven knots even with her main
diesel working easy.

At 7:30 P.M., sharp, I took bearings,
established our position approximately
four and a half miles W by N from the
light. I was in the deckhouse alone, braced
alongside the wheel, when Betsy Anne
sheered off to starboard, bow down, and
rolled way over. Water roared in over the
port bow bulwarks, slammed into the
cabin through the port windows.

Drenched, I struggled upright, switched
off the Kirsten unit and took the wheel.
The next instant everything went wrong.
I swung her hard aport to bring the bow
down-swell, fighting to keep from broach-
ing. But she didn't answer! She was dead
—dead or dying—and I knew it.

"Right yourself!" I rasped, as water
pounded in from port. She seemed to
stagger up, to shake herself. But in that
instant of indecision, another breaker
beat over her. She stayed down—down
for good, heeled over on her portside.

I let go the wheel and grabbed for the
radio.

“BBAYDAY! .. . MAYDAY!” I bel-

lowed. But I knew I wasn't gétting
through. The mike was waterlogged; the
aerial, which ran along the portside,
shorted out. She was going down bow
first. I could feel her spasm underdeck. I
killed the engine, snatched a flashlight
and fought through the starboard door and
on deck. Minutes later we went over-
board and in another 15 Betsy Anne was
gone. She’d cost $18,000 when I bought
her new, back in 744.

How long I swam, I'll never know for
sure. I started about nine p.m. It was
along toward midnight when the thing
brushed past me. It was just a sensation,
a swirling eddy churned by some monster
body. Maybe it was a seal—which can
be dangerous. Or perhaps a shark. I've
seen them take a tunaman's foot off—
boot and all. Whatever it was, it didn't
bother me. Inside, though, I was bothered
plenty. For I was cutting a phosphorescent
trail, like any night swimmer. I worried
lest I hit something floating, start bleed-
ing, and bait the sharks. But mostly I
worried about shore. I was past the tired

Anz THE TALES of strange
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These urges are the subtle influence
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IS a source of intelligence within
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Challenge this statement! Dare the
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possibilities to you.

Let This Free Book
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The Rosicrucians, a world-wide philo-
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` stage. Hours before, the feeling had ebbed

out of me.

I stroked endlessly. My breath was
coming hard now, the strain telling. As
a kid I'd have breezed those five miles,
waves or not. At 58—and 20 years since
Id worked water—it was different. In-
side I was sick from salt water. Outside,
my hide seemed afloat, the flesh water-
logged. Salt water's toxic, if you stay
brined long enough.

Then, before me, stretched the breaker
line, and behind it, the black cliffs of Cape
Lazaro. The breakers churned white and
savage, the water eddying over jagged
rocks.

Now I was 500 yards . . . now 400
yards from shore. But without specs.
things rolled and tossed out of focus. I
swam harder, worked atop a big roller,
churned desperately to stay crest-borne
long enough for a look. I saw white death,
the endless reefs. Then, to the north a
way. I noticed how the sea fingered ashore
through a narrow, frothy passage. I swung
north, crawling, pacing myself for the
herculean rush—for the danger that lay
ahead.

A breaker caught me, slammed me end
over end. It left me stranded atop a
stone-cold, slippery reef, yet still waist-
deep in brine. Frantically I struggled to
free myself, to gird for the next breaker.
I moved too slowly. The next knocked
me off, ground me into the knife-sharp
daggers that staked that shallow passage.
Comber after comber pounded in, grating
me along the reef. I fought upright. A
breaker pounded me down. I floated, rest-
ing, as the swell ebbed. Seaward reared a
towering reefer. It slammed down, a ton
of boiling water. I went down, down,
hammered into solid rock.

That's when I got it. Got it good. Like
a knife drawn across my groin, the reef
ripped my belly. I knew I'd been hurt—
hurt badly. But worse was yet ahead:
that submerged concourse of rocks. Pain
stabbed in my groin. My legs were raked,
my back ribboned, the rent in my belly
gushing blood.

An instant later I stepped into a pot-
hole. I went down and under. I bobbed

surfacewards, pain working my leg.
* Broken!" It was a death sentence throb-
bing in my mind. But when I tried swim-
ming, the leg: responded. It was wrenched,
maybe sprained, but it worked. And now
it had to work a little longer.

With a swirl, a comber ground me up
the shallow strand—and I was beached.

It must have been about four A.M.—
seven watery hours since the Betsy Anne’s
death—that crawling, half-dragging my-
self, I worked up the beach. Blood poured
from my belly. I tried stuffing wet sea-
weed into the rent, but the stuff popped
out, red-soaked. I poured in fistfuls of
sand, anything to stop the bleeding. I
tried standing, but my legs were rubber. I
sat down—and that’s all I remember.

It was dawn when I awoke. There,
towering a quarter-mile above me, stood
the lighthouse. It blurred and reeled, a
nebulous something. “You made the
beach," my mind hammered, “made the
beach ... now .. . make that light!”

Had I known how it was to be, I think
T'd never have tried that climb. If I hadn't
my heart wouldn't be the sick thing it is
today. That's how the docs figured it. The
climb, they said, finished me.

A rock wall reared 25 feet above me.
Beyond spiraled a seaswept path chipped
from olid stone. That narrow trail wound
endlessly, up and up, to the lighthouse.

I worked hand-over-hand, grasping for
handholds, managing somehow to reach
the path. Then I began crawling, bare-
foot and barekneed. Every inch of the
way was mined with stickers and inch-
long burrs. Everywhere outcropped jagged
knives of volcanic rock. But I kept crawl-
ing. And now, with day's dawning, came
the unrelenting Baja California sun—and
with it, prostrating heat.

I pulled my achihg body along that
blistering trail, sank down to rest, dragged
myself up again, crawled some more.
Crawling became as mechanical as swim-
ming—and as unending. Hand out, leg for-
ward, other hand, other knee, rest, hand,
leg, other hand ... .

It was 8:30 A.M.—almost 12 hours since
I'd left the others atop the bait tank—
when I bellied within 150 yards of the

light. I was resting, slumped in a rock's
shadow, when close by a woman jabbered
in Spanish. Moments later the lighthouse
keeper lifted me, carried me to his house.

I'd been three hours crawling that pin-
nacle—and I'd made it!

Then, in dumb disbelief, I heard the
lightkeeper's apologies.

“Senor, no telefono, no radio!"

No telephone, no radio! I'd come so
near—yet was so far! There were no com-
munications between the light and Santa
Maria Bay. No way to alert the Ameri-
can fishing boats hove to somewhere to
the south, just beyond the cape.

I sat there, mumbling, scarcely believ-
ing. Here I was as far from help as if still
clinging that sea-sopped hatch cover.

“Eat,” the keeper said softly in Span-
ish, “then we walk!”

More torturous than sea or reef was
that Hades-hot trail. It was the hardest
10 miles of my life. The trail cut through
sizzling dunes. Barefoot, I reeled behind
the keeper, my face flushed- from the sun.

W: walked silently, for I spoke but lit-
tle Spanish, too little to make myself
understood. Had I been fluent in the lan-
guage I’d have entrusted the alert to him.
He knew only that I’d beaten the sea and
had crawled toward his light.

Everywhere lay scrub sage, sand burrs
and thorns. They worked deep into my
bleeding, blistered feet. They clawed at
my ankles. Worse was the sun. My mind
reeled, my vision blurred, for brine had
infected my eyes. Now they were horribly
swollen, the left eye nearly shut.

It was noon as we neared the bay, as we
approached within a few miles of the lob-
ster camps huddling on its shore.

“No mas,” I panted. “No mas.”

The keeper grunted, left me sprawled
there and ran for help.

Two hours later I lay in a skiff. Another
15 minutes and brawny hands hauled me
aboard the fishing boat New England. I
knew its skipper, a fisherman from San
Pedro, Calif.

“Betsy sank last night,” I croaked.
“Radio the Coast Guard . . . three men
floatin’.”

They carried me below while the New
England revved engines and churned out
of Santa Maria Bay, headed for the spot
where we’d sunk.

They searched all day and into the
night. But they didn’t sight the bait tank.
I lay abunk, my left eye swollen shut. A
ship’s medic did the best he could with
my wounds.

Next day a Coast Guard PBM roared
down the bay, took me aboard. For sev-
eral hours we flew low over the ocean,
searching, crisscrossing that barren, now
quiescent sea. But there was no sign of
the others. Finally, short of fuel, the PBM
gave up, flew me back to port and to a
hospital.

What of the others? Probably they fig-
ured the “old man” hadn’t made it. Per-
haps they drifted close to the light and
struck off for shore, only to be beaten
against the reef. Perhaps, exhausted, they
slipped one by one into the swell.

For me it ended a lifetime spent follow-
ing the sea. There’s a limit to what a heart
can stand when a man’s nearly 60, years
from his prime. ++

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no hope in shouting, for no one could
hear me in that storm, but I shouted
anyway, and every time I opened my
mouth to yell I got a lungful of salt
water. I couldn't even see the ship in
the darkness. I wondered if they got the
boats away. I learned much later that
some of the crew got ashore behind the
lines in Free China territory.

I happened to be washed ashore be-
hind Jap lines. Some fishermen sheltered
me for a few days, explaining the lay of
the land: which way the Japs were,
which was was Free China, how to reach
Free China. But I decided to stay on
with them. They were something more
than mere fishermen; they operated a
weather station, broadcasting reports
from a mobile radio in one of their fish-
ing sampans. I was with these people a
long time and learned to speak Chi-
nese pretty well.

UT after a time the war in China

changed character, and it was no
longer the Chinese versus the Japs, be-
cause now the Japs had been pretty well
kicked up toward Manchuria and Korea.
Down in Central and South China the war
was shaping up between the Nationalists
under Chiang Kai-shek and the Com-
munists under Mao: Tse-tung. And it just
so happened that in the reforming of
the battle lines I found myself in Com-
munist territory.

This seemed O. K. at the time, because
we were all fighting the same war. But
I began to have doubts about the com-
rades because about half of their pris-
oners were Chinese. It seems that any-
one who wasn't with Mao was against
him and thereby a traitor and a pro-
Japanese fascist. I was in a particularly
hot spot myself because of my papers. I
didn’t have any. When the typhoon
knocked me off the Maimonides into the
sea, I just didn't have time to go below
and get my seaman's papers. I had no
birth certificate and no passport, of
course. Mao's people being the sus-
picious type, they didn't believe a damn
word I said; so they wouldn't let me
work at anything useful, or grab a rifle
and do a little fighting, or cross over
to Hong Kong and report in to the Brit-
ish as a displaced Australian seaman.

They kept me up the river in Canton,
where there was a small colony of whites.
Most of those whites were Russians,
either Red Army boys on advisory de-
tail to Mao's lash-up or pre-Revolution
White Russians who fled Shanghai long
before and came south in the forlorn
hope of getting across to Hong Kong and
the British. But the British wouldn't have
them because of that old problem of
papers. Like me, those White Russians
didn't have any. There were also some

I'M THE MAN
FROM NOWHERE

Continued from page 17

British and Americans, official and un-
official.

I managed to find work for myself in
Canton as a bartender. It's a trade you
pick up pretty fast if you have a taste
for strong refeshment. And I have. This
saloon was one of the better sort, cater-
ing -mostly to the international settle-
ment, and I hung on there because I can
get by in several languages—a trick you
pick up if you go to sea long enough.
And I learned Chinese while working
with the weather station people.

Time passed quickly, what with work-
ing 12 hours a day. My Red Chinese boss
never heard of union hours. This was
quite a dive—not just a saloon but an
opium den, too. Mao's people were forc-
ing addicts to take the cure in those
days, and shooting those who couldn't be
cured; but my boss was a big shot and
had protection, so he could run any kind
of operation he liked. There was also a
little palace of pleasure upstairs—girls
that came in all colors: the short South
Chinese, the tall and willowy North Chi-
nese, two geishas that got there I don't
know how, the usual complement of
White Russian dames, and several Eur-
asians. That was against the Red law,
too, but China will always be China,
where anything goes if you've got influ-
ence in the right places.

I guess I'd been jerking scotch-and-
sodas about a year when one night things
changed one hell of a lot. Now, you have
to understand that I'd been talking to
every Englishman and every American I
could get to hold still long enough. The
idea was to get word across the frontier
that there was a displaced seaman over
here in Canton and would somebody
please get him out. But nobody would be-
lieve anything except that I was a white
man and a merchant seaman—the tat-
toos proved that. I had no papers saying
I was born in Alabama, no papers saying
I was a resident of Australia, no papers
at all in a world where you're a for-
eigner to everyone if you don't have
papers. So about the time I had begun
to figure the Americans and the English
would never believe me, and the Reds
would keep me in Canton forever or
until it became fashionable to start shoot-
ing whites, along comes this White Rus-
sian dame from upstairs one evening with
a proposition.

No, not that kind. I knew Marushka
too well for that. She said one of her
customers—either an Englishman or an
American, but she couldn't tell which—
wanted me to work for him. Espionage.
The war was just about over, Mao con-
trolled most of China, and Chiang was
backing into a corner. Somebody wanted
some well placed ears. My job would be
to keep on doing what I was doing at

this scotch-and-soda pagoda and listen
with both ears whenever big Reds—Chi-
nese or Russian—were holding up. the
bar. In my off hours I could fraternize
with whoever was in the know, stroll
around Canton with my eyes peeled, and
in general get up whatever information I
could.

What was in it for me? That's what I
asked little Marushka. She didn’t know.
I wanted out of Canton and into Hong
Kong. Could she find out if that could
happen? The answer came a night later,
and it was no. No promises. How did I
know I wouldn’t be working for the Japs?
Because no. info on the American or
British was required. It looked like a
square deal, all right. But who was be-
hind it? What if I got caught spying
or passing information? I had to ask that
question. The answer came fast. If I got
caught, tough schnitzel, as the saying
goes. Without papers I was a stateless
man, and therefore no government could
help me. Besides, I couldn't expect the
British or the Yanks to bear a hand with
a guy who was poking his nose into their
“ally’s” affairs, could I? If I went along
with this deal, it was on the slim hope
that someone might get grateful and help
me out of Red China after a while. I
agreed to do it. All information was to
be passed to Marushka.

That's the way it was for the next few
years. I listened in on conversations, and
reported them. Off duty, I poked around
the railroad yards, munitions depots,
military camps, the waterfront, and re-
ported everything, no matter what it

was. There wasn't any money in it; I
still made my living at the gin pagoda.
This was supposed to be done for patri-
otic reasons, pure and simple, only it
wasn't so pure, because I wanted out of
Red China and I figured this might be my
ticket. It might not, too. Probably not.
But it was the only chance I could see
at that time.

Naturally the question came up about
hightailing it across the frontier on my
own. And that was quite a question. You
see, Canton is situated at the upper end
of the Bay of Tyshan, at the mouth of a
dirty yellow stream poetically called the
Pe River. Hong Kong is about 90 miles
down the bay. Go by boat? The Bay of
Tyshan is constantly patrolled by fast
torpedo boats. Go overland? Sure, by
railroad, and every car has its armed
guards.

After the end of the war, the war went
on anyhow. Germany had been beaten
and pretty well walked over, and the
Nips were still wondering what happened
to a couple of.their cities, and the war
was officially declared over and done
with. But in China nobody paid the slight-
est attention. Ragged remnants of Na-
tionalist Chinese were holding out here
and there against the Russian-backed
armies of Mao's Red regime. And there-
fore my job went on and on and on. In
fact it went on until 1952, which is when
I called off the whole deal. I had been,
as far as I knew, a successful espionage
agent for either the British or the Ameri-
cans about eight years now. I had been
living on borrowed time too long.

I funneled info to this White Russian
doll, Marushka, until she was replaced
by one of her sisters under the skin, a
Korean cutie. I should have got the
pitch right then. Marushka disappeared.
Just plain disappeared. And the Korean
showed up, announcing that she was the
replacement. What happened to Marush-
ka? was my first question. Ask me no
questions and I'll tell you no lies was
the general idea behind the answer I
got. The war outside China had been
declared over for some six years and a
piece, while the war inside China was

still progressing very nicely.
A BIG underground resistance had
grown up and was kicking up a storm.
About the time Marushka disappeared,
there were almost nightly dynamitings
of railroad switches and munitions dumps.
It was at this point, when the Korean
girl came along, that I got orders—from
her, in fact—to contact this underground
resistance movement and work up de-
tailed information and report it, through
the Korean.

This is where I wised up. I wasn’t
about to report on the underground to
anyone I didn’t know for damn sure. But
I went ahead and made contacts with
the underground anyhow. The local lead-
er in Canton was an old revolutionist
who had been in the Sun Vat-sen upris-
ing back in the 1920's in Shanghai. When
I finally reached him, I told him my
whole story from the shipwreck through
the period with the weather station be-
hind Jap lines and on to my recent job

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of getting information on Red Chinese
activities for some mysterious power.
I told the old man, whom I shall call Li
Soo, about Marushka and the recent re-
placement, this Korean bimbo.

I SOO listened patiently, then in-

structed me to return to my work and
await word from him. Word came a few
nights later, when I was mixing a Whirl-
ing Dervish (they make you spin), that
Li Soo wanted me. I dropped everything
and went. The old man was waiting in the
back room of a shirt shop; with him were
six or seven armed men.

“The Russian girl is dead," he opened
without ceremony. “The Korean is one
of Mao's people. I have checked your
story, and it appears to be true. You
and the Russian girl did very good work.
But unfortunately she was apprehended
passing your information to her con-
tact. She must have revealed your iden-
tity, O'Brien." Li Soo raised an admonish-
ing finger. “Ah, you must not be angry.
She would not betray you except under
great pressure, the kind of pressure we
have developed to a fine art here in
China. But now the Korean girl has been
instructed to use you for their purposes.
Your orders to get information on the
underground came straight from Pei-
ping. If you fail, they will arrest you as a
spy and shoot you. And of course you
must fail in this. It was wise of you to
confess everything to us; otherwise, if
Mao's people did not kill you, we should
be forced to. As it stands now, however,
we can help you get out of China into free
territory."

"Hong Kong?"

“If that is where you wish to go, yes.
I can get you to the bridge. The rest will
be up to your courage and ingenuity,
O'Brien. You will leave tonight."

*And the Korean girl?" I asked.

"Look at it this way——we've lost a daughter and gained a ladder."

“We shall use her.” Li Soo smiled
through his stringy gray beard. “We
shall feed her what the military calls dis-
information." He shook my hand, and I
left with three of his men.

They had a stolen lorry in a back alley,
and we rode this all the way to How-
loon. There I holed up with a Chinese
family, also members of the underground,
for two weeks, waiting for the right mo-
ment. It came when a group of people
were about to be sent across the bridge
into Hong Kong. They were the usual
collection of people who had somehow
strayed out of bounds: a fishing party
picked up on the Bay of Tyshan by a
patrol boat (the Reds control all of the
waters around there), a couple of news-
hawks who had wandered away from
Macao, some priests who had stayed in
China since before the Japs. Altogether
there were 15. I was to try and mix in
with them and make it across the bridge.

I knew we’d be counted. That couldn’t
be helped. A typhoon was kicking up a
fuss, and I thought: well, I came here
in a typhoon, so I'll check out in one.
The rain was pouring down, and a hell
of a wind was blowing, and altogether
this might work to my advantage. I was
crouched under a boxcar on a railroad
siding not more than 100 feet from the
little knot of prisoners about to be sent
across the bridge. The Red Cross aides
were checking off some papers with the
Red Chinese guards. There were numbers
of civilians standing around.

I eased out from under the boxcar and
just walked slowly and casually toward
the prisoners, unnoticed among the people
standing around in the driving rain. And
then I stood next to the group of pris-
oners, safe for the moment—until the
march across the bridge.

Maybe the guards wouldn't count
noses. -If they did, I'd have to run for

it. If I ran, they’d shoot. And if they
shot .

The order to march came then. The
prisoners started out single file. I
stepped into line as number seven. So
far, so good. It felt great to be walking
toward freedom. I wanted to sing and
jump up and down. But then as we ap-
proached the middle of the bridge, I saw
two more guards start counting the pris-
oners as the line filed past. I was still
number seven. They wouldn't know
there was one too many until they got
to number 16 and found one more than
they should have.

S we slowly walked past the two

guards who were counting, I started
timing the count. I knew that when they
reached 16 I would have to run like hell
without touching ground too often. One,
two, three, four, five, six—then me—now,
count! Eight, nine, 10, 11 12, 13, 14—
brace yourself! Now, run! Run!

I flew past the first six prisoners before
the guards started shouting at me in Chi-
nese. I ran shouting at the British guards,
"Get out of my way! I'm coming
through !"

They were shouting, too, “Go back!
Go back!"

I heard the cracking sound of rifle fire
behind me, and bullets ricocheted whining
off the bridge at my feet. I thought one
of them had to hit me at that short range:
the one I wouldn't hear, the next
bullet . . .

And then I crashed through the British
guards, knocking several of them over.
We all picked ourselves up together and
looked back across the bridge. The rest
of the prisoners were coming along O. K.,
and the Chinese were screaming with
frustrated rage.

Well, I had a hell of a lot of explaining
to do, as you might imagine. But without
papers of any kind, no one believed a
word I had to say.

You and the whole world know the rest
—how I took the bay ferry to Macao
and the Portuguese there wouldn't let
me land, and when I got back to Hong
Kong the British wouldn't let me land
either. I stayed on the G.D. ferryboat 10
months before a lawyer got the Brazilian
consul to give me a visa. Then at last I
got off the ferry and on to the French
liner Bretagne, bound for Rio de Janeiro.

The only trouble was, as you may re-
call, the Brazilian government regretted
its consul's hastiness and decided not to
let me land in Rio, either. So I rode that
very nice ship for 14 more months!

Newspapers all over the world were
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Dominican Republican gave me a visa
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capital of the Dominican Republic, which
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I do a good business—slow and easy, but
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into the spilled gasoline. The car caught
fire as I was half carried, half pushed into
the jungle.

I have no idea how they found their
way, since it was as black as the bottom
of a well under the trees. There seemed
to be some kind of path underfoot. We
continued this way for about two hours
when I spotted a light ahead. A few min-
utes later I was dragged out into a clear-
ing—the guerrilla headquarters.

There were a few ramshackle native
huts, and some lean-tos, the only light
was from a big cooking fire in the center
of the clearing. A number of native wom-
en were working at the fires and about 40
or 50 men were sprawled around watching
us. One of them came toward me. From
his dress and manner I guessed he must
be one of the leaders. He spoke no French,
but I can handle the language well enough.

“You are a doctor, yes. I am Tulu.
Come with me.” He didn’t give me a
chance to answer but turned away and
started toward the biggest hut. One of the
guerrillas put his rifle butt in my back
and pushed. I stumbled forward.

BURNING branch was brought over

and I saw the man on the table for
the first time. He was unconscious and in
shock, it was easy to see why. From chest
to knees he was soaked in blood. His
clothing was torn and mangled, the flesh
underneath wasn’t much better. I turned
to Tulu.

“What happened?”

“He was hit by a mortar shell during
the raid. It blew up right under his belly.
You will make him well.”

The idea was so preposterous I almost
laughed at him, but I quickly thought
better of it. From the look of the wound
the man should have been dead already—
it would take a miracle or a hospital and
a skilled surgeon to save him. I was just
a plain G.P.

I told this to Tulu and watched the
anger flame across his face. He pulled a
rifle away from one of the men and jabbed
it fiercely into my side. When I tried to
draw away he only pushed it that much
harder. He was overcome with anger and
I didn’t dare move.

EE. life is your life. If he dies you
ie!”

I looked at the fierce light in his eyes
and at the finger, half curled over the
trigger and quivering with tension, and I
knew I was licked. I knew I couldn’t fix
that man up but I also knew that I had
better try. A small chance, but the only
chance I had of leaving the jungle alive.

“All right I'll do it—but I'll need help.
First, what kind of medical equipment is
there here? I'll need a scalpel, retractors,
hemostats, sponges, scissors, sutures—
how much of that do you have?"

"SAVE HIM...”

Continued from page 27

He waved one of his men forward. “I
know all doctors must have the tools
with which they work, so I had this man
remove yours from your car before it
burned."

The guerrilla was proud of his work.
He thrust forward my "tools"—my
stethoscope! The one thing I could have
no possible use for. I almost lost hope at
that point, but the thought of that shared
grave pushed me on. I dug out the con-
tents of my pockets and dropped them on
the ground in front of me. Keys, wallet—
the usual mess. Out of it all there were
only two things I could possibly use; a
small gold-handled pen knife and an an-
cient needle from a hypodermic that was
stuck in the lining of one pocket. I had
to see what they had around the camp
that I could work with.

A half-hour later I knew I was licked.
I had found some steel straps on a pack-
ing case that could be bent into retractors.
The women had supplied some needles,
thread and rags; a stolen truck toolbox
had furnished me with needle-nose pliers.
These were my operating instruments.

I almost gave up hope at this point. I
don't know whether it was the sight of
those guns, or a memory that made me
go on. In the back of the lecture hall at
college there was a painting of Jeremias
Trautman of Wittenberg. Old Jeremias
was performing a Caesarean section in the
year 1610—and he had managed to save
both mother and child. No anesthetics,
no knowledge of sterilization, yet he had
done it.

When we look at modern hospitals we
tend to forget that men have been around
for about 50,000 years and modern medi-
cine for about 150. There have been a
lot of crude operations done since the
world began, some of them recently, like
that U. S. Navy corpsman who took out
an appendix in a sub using spoons and
kitchen knives. The least I could do was
try. I shouted at Tulu:

*Boil up all this junk and get another
man. You two are going to help me."

He was resentful of my demanding
tone, but he fought down his anger.
"What are you going to do?"

I looked him straight in the eye and
rolled all of my anger into one sentence.

"I'm going to slice open his damned
belly and take that junk out."

It worked. I had the upper hand, at
least for the present. I would need it if
this operation were to have one chance in
10,000 of succeeding.

The three of us scrubbed until our skin
was raw—right up the shoulders. I used
pieces of laundry soap and lye, strong but
effective. They hated it, but they cleaned
their nails and washed until I was satis-
fied. We went into the hut and I looked
down at my patient. “Light—lots of light!

Get every candle and lantern you have
and bring them in here!” While they were
getting the lights I had to do something
about the loss of blood. Gai Uan had lost
a lot and he was going to lose more. A
transfusion was out of the question, I
had no way of matching blood types. As I
couldn’t use whole blood I needed some-
thing like a plasma expander, a liquid to
be added to the blood so the heart would
have enough liquid to pump. Salt water
would have to do. Every medical student
knows that the concentration of salt in
the blood is 327 mg to every 100 cc of
water. I estimated the amount as closely
as I could and mixed the two in one of
their water gourds. It looked as if the
stethoscope would come in handy after
all. I took one of the rubber tubes off
and pushed it through a hole in the bot-
tom of the gourd. The hypodermic needle
went on the other end.

One of the guerrillas was drafted as an
assistant. I showed him how to squeeze
the tube so only a drop came through at
a time, then shoved the needle into the
patient’s ante-cubital vein. I picked up
my knife and the operation began.

The first thing to do in an injury like
this is to enlarge the wound. The neat cut
of the knife gives a better anchor for the
needle when you are sewing up the open-
ing. I pared away a chunk of ragged flesh
and dropped it on the ground. The edge
of the wound was bleeding in about six
different places. If I had had surgical
clamps I could have pinched each of
them off first, then returned later to tie
them shut with thread. All I had was the
pliers. I pinched off one blood vessel and
handed the pliers to Tulu to hold. While
he stopped the flow I took the thread and
sutured it. A quick loop, a triple knot
and it was tight. I moved on to the next
one.

With the wound enlarged and the bleed-
ers tied off I was ready to enter the ab-
dominal cavity. I hooked the retractors
over the edge of the wound and hauled it
open. My other assistant grabbed onto
them to hold the wound open while I
worked inside. The peritoneum was ex-
posed now, that great, tough sac that en-
closes the guts. I cut through it and
hooked the retractors over the edges to
pull everything back. An hour had passed
and I was finally entering the abdominal
cavity.

HAD to determine the extent of the

injury. I probed with my hand; Gai
Uan gave a groan from the depths of his
stupor. When you haul on their guts they
do that.

He was all chopped up inside. His
spleen was remarkably uninjured, but his
stomach had more holes in it than a
Swiss cheese. To complete the operation
I would have to take his stomach out
and sew the end of his esophagus to the
top of his small intestine. I think my
thoughts were showing on my face, be-
cause I found Tulu staring at me intently.
I couldn't do it! In a hospital it takes a
specialist and two operating room as-
sistants three hours for this operation.
The look on Tulu's face told me that I
was going to do it here and now with my
crude equipment.

One thing on my side was the rapid

clotting time Gai Uan seemed to have. I
took another chance. First tying off the
gastric arteries, I just hacked out the
debris, staying the venous bleeding. by
packing the hole with sterile rags. I
flushed out the whole thing with water
and got ready to rip and sew. In the gut
are dangerous bacteria but the metal frag-
ments had already spread them around,
there was no point in trying to avoid
entry of the gut tube to prevent infection.
I had hauled out the mortar pieces and
was glad that only four or five large ones
were there. If he had been splattered by
a hundred tiny pieces it would have been
impossible.

I began hooking flesh together as fast
as I could. With my finger I ripped apart
the connective tissue that held down the
organs I needed—the pyloric sphincter,
duodenum and lower esophagus. This was
a rough and ready trick that I had learned
from a combat surgeon. Ripped tissue
heals faster and this way I saved some
vital time.

I was ready now for the final step. The
last pieces of the stomach came out. Be-
fore they hit the ground I had the two
open ends of the tubes against each other
and I was sewing. It was a fast and crude
job. Two hours from start to finish; it
looked like I would make it. Gai Uan was
as pale as a sheet of paper but his heart-
beat was strong and regular. I closed the
peritoneum and sewed it together. Clos-
ing the opening in the muscle and Hesh
would take longer, but the dangerous part
was over.

My arms were shaking with exhaustion

when I finished. I slumped down on the:

ground, too tired to go out of that filthy
hut. I had done what I could. Gai Uan
was still alive; if no infection developed
he had a good chance of pulling through.

WEEK later he was still alive. I had

him on a liquid diet and what guts he
had left were beginning to take over the
work of the stomach. He may still be
alive, I don't know, my chance came that
night.

I woke up to the sound of firing in the
jungle. It came nearer and I realized that
it must be Viet Nam soldiers. This was
my break and I took it. I had loosened
some of the mats:that formed the back
wall of the hut. I dove through the wall
and into the jungle. Some shots were
fired in my direction, but they didn't come
close. Everyone was too busy to look for
me, all I had to worry about was snake
bite or getting lost.

The firing died down and I heard men
moving by me in the brush. I hoped it
was the guerrillas moving out, but I
waited to make sure.

A nervous sentry almost put a hole
through me when I returned, but I
couldn't get angry at him for it. The
Viet Minh were gone and a company of
tough looking Viet Nam soldiers were
occupying the camp. They were amazed
to see me. Everyone was sure I was
dead; Viet Minh guerrillas do not take
prisoners.

It was a crude and sloppy operation
that I had performed, probably one of
the crudest ever done. But it was a damn

good operation.
It saved two lives. oo4¢

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Like us, he had headed farther out on the
ice bridge looking for an open water lead.

“Might as well," I suggested to Jess as
we eyed the tracks.

We began to follow them and before
long the dogs caught the scent and got
plenty excited. They broke into a run,
yammering and whining eagerly. The
komiak shot ahead and we had our hands
full as we went banging and rocking over
the rough ice.

Jess jumped up and down on the steel
brake until I thought it would snap off,
but after a little it bit deep into the ice
and dragged the komiak to a stop.

We tried to quiet the dogs down. From
all the racket it looked like we had already
scared the hell out of any polar bear
around. But pretty soon Jess pointed to
a long, jagged pile of ice about shoulder-
high and maybe 250 yards away.

We could see the nanook’s small head
moving around behind it. We had caught
up with him from downwind. As long as
he hadn't yet got our scent, the noise,
whatever he had heard of it in the stiff
breeze, didn't seem to bother him any.

*Go ahead and shoot him," Jess. said.
“PII stay here and take care of the dogs.”

NODDED, reaching for my rifle. It
was his teami: a dozen big sledders,
mostly Eskimos and a few Siberians and
Malemutes thrown in, all spoiling for a

fight at the smell of bear. Jess could con- `

trol 'em better than I could.

I went ahead slowly, covering several
yards before the bear spotted me. Then
his head disappeared quietly behind the
ice pile. Like all manooks who watch a
man in a parka approach them from
downwind, this one figured I was a seal
out on the ice and got himself set to stalk
me.

I kept on moving toward him, angling a
little to the right and away from the ice
pile. I had to come up on a line with the
pile and maybe a little beyond before I'd
be able to get a clear shot at him.

I was abreast of the pile and about 40
yards away from it when I saw.the bear
again. He was at the near end and I came
to a stop.

The wind shifted a bit and he caught
my scent. He gave a fierce growl of dis-
appointment at being cheated out of a
meal of blubber. I could see his red-
rimmed, angry little eyes as he reared up,
ready to fight.

He looked as wide as an igloo and
better than 10 feet tall. He was a big one,
all right; what we call a nanook-suah.

He growled again, this time in loud
challenge. His growls turned into snarls

HE HAD TO USE
THE KNIFE

Continued from page 43

of rage and his lips drew back, showing
his long fangs. He started rocking on his
hind legs and bringing his front paws up,
fanning air as he batted them out from
his chest and whipped himself into fury.

He was a perfect target and I aimed for
the heart, carefully lining up the sights of
my .30 Krag against the yellow-white fur.
I had enough time and yardage before he
started to rush me, for a 220-grain bullet
will stop even a nanook-suah cold.

Right before I began to squeeze the
trigger, I had one of those sudden, uneasy
feelings that a guy sometimes gets about
something being wrong. I should have
paid attention to that warning hunch.

“The rag!" I heard Jess yell faintly be-
hind me.

My gun went off. Instantly, as the bul-
let hit the little flannel rag I had forgotten
to take out of the rifle muzzle, I felt a
wallop like I had been struck in the
shoulder by a sledge hammer.

There was a loud explosion. As the kick
of the butt slammed me over on my back-
side, the rifle barrel peeled into crazy
twisting strips of steel. One small piece
broke off and whizzed backward like a
chunk of shrapnel. It caught me in the
forehead, tearing through the hood of my
parka.

Half-groggy and with blood streaming
into my eyes, I looked up in a hurry. I
knew I had to scramble out of there fast
or the nanook would be on me.

He was still several yards away, for the
sound of the explosion had scared him
for a second or two. But he got over it
quickly and started for me, madder than
hell.

I scrambled to my feet, yelling for Jess.
The blood in my eyes blinded me. I had
a hunting knife sheathed on the belt
around my parka. But even as I grabbed
for it I knew it was no use. My whole
arm, from shoulder down, felt numb.

I started to run back toward Jess. I
took maybe three or four steps, wiping
my eyes with my left sleeve. I tripped
over a piece of pressure ice and went
down again, this time on my face.

I won't get away, I thought in terror
as the dark ice came up at me. The snarls
of the nanook sounded close behind me as
I got to a knee and managed to snatch out
my knife with my left hand. I heard the
thumping of my heart as I tried to get up
to face him.

I heard Jess shout something. Almost
immediately our lead dog, Agak, shot out
from behind me. With a low growl, 85
pounds of black and white Eskimo hurled
himself upward, fangs bared, aiming for
the bear's throat.

Jess had slashed him loose from his
harness and Agak had wasted no time in
rushing the bear. He was all reckless cour-
age, that dog. No jockeying around, no
feinting, just a straight, head-on charge.

At that Agak almost caught the nanook
by surprise. But, big as he was, the bear
shifted as quickly as a welterweight. I
saw his long neck stretch to the right, out
of the way, and his left paw lash out with
a swift and savage blow.

There was no dodging that awful wal-
lop. Agak’s ribs caved in like dried-out
twigs. His spine snapped and his back
curved up as he came flying through the
air. He was dead before he landed.

For the moment the bear seemed to
have forgotten about me. Before he re-
membered and maybe decided to take
after me again, I started running like hell
in the direction of the komiak.

I felt a lot better when I saw Jess
coming toward me fast with a heavy
oogruk harpoon in his hand. He was a guy
who knew how to use one on a polar
bear as well as a seal or walrus. Like some
Eskimos, he even favored it over a gun.

O.K., I thought as I slowed up and be-
gan to ' breathe regularly again, now it's
your turn, you’ zanook-suah bastard.

The bear was still reared up back at
the spot where he had killed Agak, still
madder than hell. But a polar bear isn't
at all stupid. He was staring at Jess and
sizing up the harpoon and maybe thinking
about beating a retreat.

Pretty soon the sled dogs helped him
make up his mind. They were becoming
more and more excited after Jess left
them, yelping wildly, tearing and strain-
ing at their harnesses, trying to drag the
komiak free.

Suddenly the ice under the brake
gouged out and the dogs started off. They
came charging along behind Jess, heading
straight toward the bear, yipping like they
meant to tear him apart.

That decided the nanook. He let out a
couple of more loud growls, whirled
around and started making tracks for the
piled up ice. Jess didn't get close enough
to throw his harpoon before the bear
ducked behind the ice pile. He kept right
on traveling. The next time I saw his
head it was over a low point in the ice
heap more than 100 yards farther on.

The dogs came right on after him with
the komiak banging along behind them.

“The komiak!" Jess shouted.

He dropped the harpoon like it was red
hot and grabbed for the sled handles as
the komiak shot by. He managed to hang
on and as they came up to me I dodged
out of the way of the dogs and grabbed
too.

Then the two of us were dragged along
behind yelling and swearing at the team
while Jess bobbed up and down trying to
find the brake and jump on it. There was
no holding those dogs. They were out
for blood.

Jess was still feeling for the brake when
the team came abreast of the ice pile and
started to round it. Instead of making a
swing, the dogs on the left leads cut in
sharp to save time and the komiak crashed
right into the heaped up ice. It spilled
over, taking Jess and me along with it.

Some of the dogs went over too with
the force of the sudden check, and those
that didn’t still had bear on their minds
and tried to keep going and in no time at
all there was one godawful foul-up.

GOT to my feet and thought that any

guy driving a tandem team instead of a
fan-shaped hitch like we were doing would
laugh himself sick to see the fix we were
in.

You can get into an argument anywhere
in Alaska about the best way to hitch up
a team of dogs. All Eskimos and some of
the old-timers favor the fan-shaped hitch
with the dogs fanning out on separate
leads from the tow line. Most of the
freighters and the dog team racers like
the tandem hitch.

Jess and I have always preferred the
fan-shaped hitch, especially when we're
hunting. That way if we wanted to cut
out a dog from the team in a hurry to
take after game we could pick any one we
wished. With a tandem hitch you have to
cut out the lead dog first.

We worked like the devil trying to
straighten out the damned tangle those
dogs had gotten themselves into. Agak,
the big Eskimo, had been a help in keep-
ing the other 11 dogs in line and we
missed him badly. The two Malemutes,
Natash and Michi, had gotten themselves
so snarled up in their leads that we had
to cut the lines to free them and Ukuk,
one of the Siberian huskies, was brawling
with Sela, a heavy Eskimo, and not mak-
ing things any easier.

“T can’t find the goddamned whip,”
Jess swore, “and these bastards are so

PHOTO CREDITS

The black and white photographs used in this issue of STAG are from the follow-
ing sources: pages 12-13-14, Author; pages 16-17, U.P.; pages 18-19, Penguin,
Woolley—Black Star; pages 20-23, Stan Young; pages 26-27, Internationale;

pages 28-29-30, U.P.; pages 32-33, Penguin from 20th Century-Fox’s “An
American Guerrilla in the Philippines,’ Wide World; pages 36-37-38, Author;
pages 40-41, Roy McClean; pages 42-43, U.P., Lawrence Thornton—Frederic
Lewis. STAG’S cover this month was painted by Mort Kunstler.

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stirred up over bear they don’t even feel
a fist.”

We were both panting and wet with
sweat before we got the dogs back into
some sort of order and we lost a lot of
time over it.

Jess was still bawling some of the dogs
out when I walked back and picked up
the harpoon that he had dropped. I also
picked up my busted rifle again for no
good reason at all. No gunsmith was going
to be able to put that Krag together again.
I threw it into the komiak with the har-
poon.

Jess stared at me then like he hadn’t
seen me before.

“Christ,” he said startled, “you look
like you ought to be dead. How are you
feeling?”

MUST have looked pretty bad at that

with the blood dried and frozen all
over my face. But when I felt my fore-
head I knew it was only a bad cut. The
stiffness in my shoulder and arm were
working out and I wasn't worrying about
it. Like Jess and the dogs, I was still
thinking about the nanook and hating the
idea of going back without his hide.

"I'm O.K.,” I told Jess. “You got some-
thing on your mind?"

“That Agak was a damn good dog,” he
said regretfully.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Also he probably
saved my life."

I knew that was all he had been waiting
to hear.

"Let's go," he said and started the dogs
off.

They pulled away eagerly, following
bear scent along the line of piled up ice
for about a quarter of a mile. From his
tracks we could see that the nanook had
been traveling right along. A short dis-
tance beyond and then the team angled
off sharply across the ice bridge straight
on out over the frozen Chuckchee Sea.

It was a pretty thing to watch the way
the whole team wheeled like one dog. Any
Alaskan sled dog worth his keep can also
be used for hunting, although there's al-
ways a difference of opinion as to which
breed has the best nose, an Eskimo, Siber-
ian husky or Malemute. All of the three
breeds making up Jess’ team seemed to
catch the change in scent direction at
about the same time.

"He's slowing down," I said, pointing
to the bear tracks. “Forgetting about us
and thinking about his belly again.”

We sledded along for almost another
mile and cracks began to appear here and
there in the pressure ice. One of the
cracks ahead looked like it was going to
open into a lead. Farther on it became a
widening split and we could see dark
water beneath.

The dogs took the left side of the lead
and acted even more excited as they broke
into a run. :

“Nothing doing," Jess muttered angrily,
“one foul-up is plenty."

The komiak slowed down as he jumped
on the brake. He kept riding it while the
dogs strained on their leads, dragging the
sled along.

This time we knew the nanook wasn't
going to fall for any fake seal act. He was
probably hunting along the open lead and
if he saw 11 dogs come charging at him

more than likely he'd hit the water and
start swimming. That would be the last
we'd see of him. I've known polar bears
to stay in the water for three or four
days and to swim many miles out into
the open sea.

I kept watching the ice ahead along
the lead and after a while I saw the
nanook outlined yellow-white against the
darkness of the water.

“There he is," I said, pointing. “Hunt-
ing for oogruk just like nothing's hap-
pened.”

Jess grunted as he brought the komiak
to a dead stop. He told me to handle the
sled while we were still about 300 yards
from the bear. Here the ice bridge was
almost flat and we were in plain sight.

“We better start keeping him busy,”
Jess said, “or this time we'll lose him for
sure.”

He stepped forward into the team and
the dogs knew what was coming and
whined in excitement. Jess picked out
Natash, one of the two Malemutes. The
dog trembled with eagerness as Jess freed
him from his line and harness.

“Hai!” Jess growled at him, “Nanook!”

The Malemute knew his business. He
was a four-year-old, wolfish gray who had
hunted bear on the ice before and he was
plenty smart. He went streaking out along
the lead, maneuvering between the bear
and the open water.

When Natash had covered about half
the distance to the bear, Jess cut out a
second dog, Grond, an 85-pound blue-
gray Eskimo. Grond let out one yelp and
started after the Malemute.

“O.K., Eddie," Jess called back to me.
“Bring up the sled. Slow!”

I eased up a little on the brake and the
team tugged forward, hoping to get in on
the scrap. I had a hell of a time keeping
them under control as Jess grabbed up a
harpoon and trotted out ahead of them.

The nanook paid no attention to us. By
this time Natash and Grond had caught
up with him and were keeping him plenty
occupied. They didn’t launch any head-on
attack like Agak, which is probably what
the bear had expected. He acted sort of
surprised when Natash shot right by him,
and then suddenly dashed in and nipped
his rump.

HE bear let out one awful roar as he

whirled around to get at Natash. Grond
saw the opening and dashed in. He took
a fierce hit-and-run bite out of the same
hindquarter and flashed out of reach.

The bear roared again. He rocked from
side to side and then he reared up. By
now he understood that he was facing real
trouble and he was out to end the fight
as fast as he could.

He batted the air with deadly swipes to
the left and right as the two dogs feinted
and nipped at him, keeping him off bal-
ance and just dodging beyond reach of
his paws.

I brought the komiak to a stop about
50 yards away and I heard Grond’s jaws
snap shut as he came in fast from the side,
missed the bear’s flank and bit air.

The bear batted out again as Natash
sprang in. This time the Malemute’s tim-
ing was a little off. He ducked, but the
other paw came up with a deadly raking
blow. Quick as the devil, the bear’s claws

ripped into Natash’s belly. The’ Male-
mute went sailing through the air with
his guts trailing out of him.

I heard Jess yell then and saw him go
straight at the bear with his harpoon. At
the same instant Grond came charging in
again from the right.

The nanook tried to handle them both,
acting with terrific speed. I don’t know
which of his fast moving paws was meant

for the harpoon and which for the dog.

He fanned ’em across and up.

He caught Grond in the side with a
frightful wallop as Jess drove the har-
poon at him. The point sdhk deep into his
fur and as he straightened the shaft of the
harpoon came up with him. I groaned
when I saw that Jess hadn't put it into
his heart, but high in the shoulder.

“Get back!" I screamed, but Jess was
too goddamned mad to pay any attention.

I watched him pull out his knife. It
was like watching a guy with a rope
around his neck just before the trap
opens.

The damned fool, I thought as I stood
there sweating it out, the crazy damned
fool, he hasn’t got a chance.

For maybe a second or two he stood
there like he was studying the bear. The
nanook kept snarling at him, showing his
long fangs and waiting.

Suddenly Jess took a short, quick step
to the right and pivoted around to the

left. His knife flashed out. It came down
swiftly, slicing deep into the bear’s heart.

Jess kept on pivoting to the left, trying
to duck out of reach. The bear roared
loudly as the knife struck home and I
waited for him to swipe Jess with his
deadly left paw.

He didn’t try to use it. Instead, as Jess
tried.to dodge away, the bear lashed out
with his right paw. It came ripping down
the back of Jess’ parka, tearing it open.
A little closer and it would have broken
Jess’ back for sure.

He started to run back toward me, yell-
ing for the other harpoon. I was still
reaching for it when the nanook began
rocking on his hind legs like he was drunk.
I saw the blood spurting out of his chest.
His heart was sliced open and in another
second he toppled over dead.

Jess looked sort of green around the
gills as he came panting back to the
komiak. He turned and glanced back at
the heap of yellow-white fur that was the
dead nanook.

“The oogruk harpoon sure tore the hell
out of his shoulder," he said. “I figured I
had taken most of the fight out of him be-
fore I used the knife."

“No fooling,” I growled, still shaking
at his narrow escape.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at my
busted Krag in the komiak.

That shut me up. oo

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or getting a soldier out of the clutches of
a monetarily unsatisfied tart.

But the MPs cannot function effect-
ively unless there is a public disturbance
or an obvious violation of the law. They
can check passes, but cannot compel a
GI to leave a bar, though it may be in
the soldier’s own interest to do so.

And while the Bavarian Parliament
roared over the “outrage” of pictures of
pretty girls appearing on street-car tickets
advertising Munich’s swimming pools, it
has done nothing to curb the city’s traffic
in sin.

N added problem has been tossed into

the lap of officials since the signing of

the Austrian Peace Treaty and the evacua-

tion of Allied troops from the republic
south of Germany.

German authorities now have their
hands full warding off the thousands of
prostitutes that infested the American
communities in Austria. With the vice
market drying up because of the U. S.
withdrawal, virtually every prostitute in
Austria has applied for admission into
West Germany. Many, when visas are re-
fused, slip across the border illegally,
creating a lively resentment on the part
of German prostitutes who consider their
Austrian sisters unwanted competition.

Despite West Germany’s postwar boom,
bustle and recovery, the ravages of war
are still reflected by the thousands of
young women who turned to prostitution
in the early years of the occupation as a
desperate attempt at survival. The Amer-
ican Zone of Occupied Germany spawned
thousands of prostitutes and part of a
female generation that has lost all tra-
ditional ties with its own history and
culture.

Most of the girls speak fluent English.
They ape what they consider the fashions
and manners of American women. Many
have married, and more hope to wind up
marrying, U. S. soldiers. By now, they
have spent their entire adult lives in the
company of Americans. A reintegration
into German society is impossible for
most of them.

And, though West Germany’s recovery
is real enough, thousands of girls are each
year recruited into the ranks of prostitu-
tion, girls who cannot justify this choice
of profession because of war-induced ne-
cessity.

But their reason is not hard to find.

In a country where salaries for secre-
taries, waitresses and salesgirls are good
if they reach $100 monthly, young women
are sorely tempted to seek easy money
in the business of selling themselves. The
loss of self-respect and morality is writ-
ten off against the chance to meet large
numbers of generous, wealthy, popular
Americans and the opportunity to live

PARTY GIRLS
OF MUNICH

Continued from page 14

what they consider exciting, lucrative
lives.
The picture is further complicated by

the apnearance of all kinds of semi-pros

who have turned to prostitution to sup-

plement salaries of low-paying jobs.

Meantime, into the swelling ranks of
the "amateur" prostitutes have moved
wives, mothers and refugees from the So-
viet Zone of Germany, all of whom find
it necessary to pick up extra cash by
selling themselves.

The one known American girl who has
drifted into prostitution in Munich oper-
ates out of Goethe Street. Her present
low estate is the result of a falling-out
with her GI fiancé. Too proud to retum
unmarried to her California home, she
looks from doped, bloodshot eyes into the
face of every soldier at the bar, selling
herself in a mechanical, dispassionate way
to anyone who will buy her a drink and
pay a couple of dollars.

In Munich, aside from the cheap sin of
the depot area, professional prostitutes
station themselves on practically every
busy corner and intersection in the city.
The trade begins at 10:30 A.M. on Send-
linger Street to handle the early morning
market and business crowd. Such after-
breakfast indulgence is termed “the cof-
fee-break.”

Earnings vary with the girls themselves.
They rise, of course, around the first and
fifteenth of each month—U. S. paydays.

Some of the girls admit earning up to
$500-600 each month. Others, usually old-
er and unattractive, net as little as $25-75
monthly. West German taxes take about
35 percent of the salaries of regularly em-
ployed persons. Taxes for professional
prostitutes are levied under the novel sys-
tem of an assessor sizing the girl up and
deciding on the basis of her looks and
clothes how much she probably earns.
The girls attempt to beat down their tax
payment by appearing before the assessor
at their frowziest and least attractive.

NE girl, an elegant young woman of

25, confided she earned $600 month-
ly working as a prostitute five days a
week. She said she supplemented her in-
come by selling nude and obscene pictures
of herself to customers.

She is, she said, the owner of a 1955
green Mercedes and drives the 50 miles
to her parents’ village outside Munich to
visit them twice a month.

“I tried being a waitress, then a secre-
tary,” she said. “But it was always the
same, the boss expected you to be accom-
modating—but he wanted you for
nothing.

ST decided, ” she added, with a shrug of
herself, “to stop giving myself away, and
I haven’t been sorry.”

She shares an expensive, well-furnished

$100-a-month apartment with a girl-friend
and plans to buy a restaurant in a few
years after she retires.

Not all the girls will have the same
luck. The great majority of them have
written finish to any possibility of a de-
cent future by entering prostitution. Most
will wind up diseased and ugly, scratching
out some kind of living in small-time
crime.

Even now many exist at a near-starva-
tion level, crawling from their cheap
neighborhoods to the lighted streets and
warm bars where they can at least hear
the sound of their own laughter, however
feeble and forced.

Some of the hopeless cases, particularly
around the Goethe Street area, feed So-
viet agents bits and dribbles of military
information gleaned from unsuspecting
GIs. While the girls are unlikely to run
across such intelligence items as the firing
power of U. S. atomic cannon, now sta-
tioned on West German soil as part of
the West’s anti-communist defense sys-
tem, they can and do pick up enough to
embarrass, compromise and weaken the
U. S. mission overseas.

West Germany has tough laws for deal-
ing with the publication of pornographic
literature. But from the ranks of the hun-
dreds of pretty girls who each year at-
tempt to crash the movie industry at
Munich's huge Geiselgasteig film studios,
models are easily recruited to pose for
lewd photographs.

Cast-off directors and actors find read-
ily accessible equipment for shooting
filthy movies, a big local and export busi-
ness. Photographers, operating quietly in
some of the city's best residential sec-
tions and in Schwabing, Munich's artists'
quarter, have flooded world markets with
immoral pictures.

Munich after dark is a heady mixture
of sophisticated, elegant bars, floor shows
featuring nudes, dance halls, gambling ca-

1 OO TING

sinos and lonely-hearts’ meeting-places.

Most of Munich’s night clubs direct
their pitch at the fat American dollar.
The clubs feature such attractions as a
Parisian lingerie show with the frilly gar-
ments modeled by -two shapely young
ladies, “exotic beauty dancers’ and “Amer-
ican-style strip-teasers.” Two clubs fea-
ture lady wrestling, hostesses and tele-
phones on the tables to speed intimacy.

In Schwabing, Munich’s Greenwich
Village, jazz-crazy kids meet at dozens of
cigar-box-size clubs, jitterbugging until
the early morning hours to the music of
marijuana-smoking musicians.

Munich is a city of almost 1,000,000
people, famous for more than 200 years
as an art center, a university city and
as the home of the world's biggest and
friendliest beer gardens.

HE docile, good-humored. Bavarians

who carefully guard their pfennigs for
the down payment on a motorcycle or
Volkswagen ignore the slime of their city.
A good Bavarian works hard, stays sober
(except on Saturday nights and festival
days), eats his wurst and wienerschnitzel,
complains about taxes and the North
Germans.

He would show the greatest surprise
were you to point out to him that a few
hundred feet from his city's famous Rat-
haus (town hall), the naked bodies of
men and women are exposed almost every
night to the camera of a specialist in
pornography.

He would dismiss as "natural" the fact
that five dollars will buy a woman for an
hour in front of the Michaelskirche, one
of his city's oldest churches and the one
he probably attends on Sundays.

His explanation is that an army and a
war—any army and any war—bring the
same evils. It has always been that way
and probably will be that way for a long
time to come. ***

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OUTDOOR G-MEN

To the Editor:

In a recent issue of STAG, you men-
tioned fresh air jobs with the Immi-
gration and Naturalization Service. I
am very much interested in obtaining
an appointment with the Border Pa-
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POW! WOW!

Mr. Stephen Hull:

Quite by accident I noticed your
article “Nighttime Girls of Terre
Haute.” I’ve never read anything so
ridiculous and distasteful in all my
life. Why is it, if you know so much
about our town, you failed to mention
all the decent people who never see
this so-called “bad” side of our town?
The way you wrote that article, you
gave the impression that everyone is
either a drunkard or a dope fiend, and
going to stags and drunken parties
every night. I realize Terre Haute
isn’t all it should be, that gambling
and such go on, but that doesn’t mean
that everyone in the city is a part of
it. Having lived in this town all my
life, I do feel quite proud of it. Let the
low type of people have their gambling
and vice, but the decent citizens of
Terre Haute have nothing to be
ashamed of in their town. Why make
the innocent suffer along with the
guilty? Anyone reading that article
would probably go out of their way to
keep from hitting Terre Haute.

Mary R. Doyle
Terre Haute, Indiana

Dear Mr. Hull:

Wow! Congratulations! The article
you wrote in the November issue of
STAG (see above) makes one from
the town of Terre Haute afraid to ad-
mit it. | must congratulate you, though,
on your nerve and thorough and accu-
rate description of the wide-open town.

There was only one thing wrong:
Mayor Tucker or one of his associates
got rid of every copy of STAG they
could lay their hands on, but a few
got into the hands of the public. |
think you should send another stack
of them to the town. If what you said
was the truth, then no one has the
right to prevent the public from know-
ing just what kind ot a town they live
in. | was born and raised there and
knew that it was a wide-open town,
but as an individual, | could do nothing
about it.

The only thing | am sorry about is
that more people didn't get to read
about their prize town. There is only
one thing wrong with Terre Haute: the
people have the nerve to drag down
innocent people with their gossip, yet
they never stop to think what kind of
rotten place they live in and they con-
tinue to let such things go on without
even lifting their little finger to put a
stop to it.

A former resident

SOUTHPAW SPECIAL

To the Editor:

In the November issue of STAG, the
Stag Confidential column mentions a
special pen for lefties.

Who manufactures such a pen?

Directors, Mt. Pleasant Drug Co.
Mt. Pleasant, Mich.

Most of the gadgets (the above in-
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82

a flesh peddler is

DEAD

E HURRIED down Great New-
port Street, a small, stoop-shoul-
dered man whose face was hidden

by the shadows of the night. From a
distance came the muffled tones of Big
Ben striking four A.M. The little man
moved even faster, his breath frosting
in the cold January air, his footfalls
echoing hollowly in the deserted street.

A policeman loomed ahead. When
the two passed one another, the Lon-
don bobby eyed him sharply. The little
man acknowledged the stare with an
abrupt nod, but his pace didn't slacken.
Minutes later, swallowed up by the
moonless night, he came to a grimy
building and, after a quick glance back
in the direction of the bobby, he en-
tered and went up two flights of stairs.

Stopping before a door that bore
neither name nor number, he inserted
a key in the lock and turned it with
deliberate caution. Then he silently
slipped inside and stood with his back
against the closed door, probing the
dark apartment.

As his eyes became accustomed to
the blackness, he saw nothing that
moved; but, as his ears became at-
tuned to the silence, he picked up the
sound of labored breathing. He sniffed
like an animal in search of a scent.

by ROBERT J. LEVIN

And among the apartment's blend of
offensive smells—including cabbage,
musty furniture, stale beer and lit-
tered ash trays—there was also the
scent of a woman: cheap lilac perfume.

Cautiously he made his way across
the room to a bed in the corner. When
he was certain the woman lay there
alone, he grunted and switched on a
small bed lamp. The sickly light fell
full on her face, but her eyelids didn't
flicker. She slept with her mouth
partly open, and as she sucked in air,
she snored slightly. Apparently she
had fallen asleep while undressing. She
wore a slip but no other undergar-
ments, and though one leg was bare,
the other was still clad in a stocking,
rolled down to the knee.

OR a long moment the man stood

there, staring at her. No expression
crossed his thin pale face, but with an
habitual gesture he ran one hand
through his thick black hair and shook
his head, and then he swore softly. An
empty whisky bottle lay on the floor.
He kicked it, and it crashed against
the metal stand of a wash basin, shat-
tering. Still the woman slept undis-
turbed.

He pulled her up to a sitting posi-

tion, looped one of her arms around
his neck and seized her by the waist.
With a heave, he got her to her feet.
She didn't open her eyes but mumbled
a protest. He dragged her into the
bathroom and dumped her into a tub.
Then he turned on the cold water.

Her eyes flew open and she was
about to scream at him, but he clamped
a hand across her mouth and shoved
her head under the stream of water,
holding it there while her body
thrashed furiously. Then he growled
a warning: *Keep your mouth shut—
hear me?" And he let her go.

She stood up in the tub, the wet
slip plastered to her sturdy body, out-
lining strong breasts and full, firm
hips, a woman who would have been
a sculptor's delight. And in her anger,
her face became vital and alive again,
beautiful in a savage way, with deep-
set eyes and flaring nostrils and a
mouth shaped to bite as well as kiss.
From between her lips came a torrent
of curses as she swore at the man in
French.

He waited out her fury with
patience, and when the chilly air in
the apartment made her shiver, he
held out a towel. Quickly she stripped
off the slip and the remaining stock-

EU

SOM LA

84

ing; and after she wrapped the towel
around as much of her as it would
cover, she stepped out of the tub. The
small, stoop-shouldered man reached
for another towel and helped her dry
herself.

"Why'd you have to go and get
drunk?" he complained. *Ain't I got
my hands full without you being
loaded?"

She didn't answer him. Instead she
asked: “What happened?"

He ignored her question, too. “Don’t
waste time talking," he said. “Just
shake a leg and get your clothes on!"

Her lips twitched. “Usually it's the

other way around, n’est-ce pas?" she
commented sardonically as she let the
towel fall and: walked back into the
bedroom, none too steady on her feet.

For a moment he eyed her appreci-
atively. “They just don't manufacture
them the same way in this country,”
he said. That's why we import them.”

Then, as though he remembered
something else, his face clouded over;
and he strode to a closet where he got
a suitcase and started packing.

It was almost two hours before the
pair were finally on their way; and
as they stepped out onto Great New-
port Street, daylight was seeping

through sullen gray clouds. It was
January 24, 1936.

Not much later that same morning,
in the cathedral town of St. Albans,
20 miles north of London, a carpenter
named Henry Sparger was bicycling
to work. It was, as usual, drizzling.
Although he was peddling vigorously
and kept his head tucked in to avoid
the rain, out of the corner of his eye
he spotted a man sprawled out in a
ditch alongside the road. As he got
off his bike and approached the still
figure, Sparger thought the man might
be drunk. But one look at that face,
upturned to the sky, eyes open and

pooling with rain, and the carpenter
knew the truth. j

Swiftly he biked the rest of the way
to work and called the police from
there. They dispatched an ambulance
to pick up the corpse and take it to the
local funeral parlor, figuring that the
dead man had probably been hit by a
car during the night. But the ambu-
lance driver and the policeman left the
corpse where it was; and in a short
while raincoated officials were clus-
tered at the spot, staring with grim
concentration at the remains of a man
who had had six bullets fired point-
blank into his belly.

Assigned to the case was Inspector
Eric Sharpe of Scotland Yard, a calm,
polite, distinguished-looking man who
would have been perfectly at ease in
the diplomatic service. As he stood
among the others at the scene of the
crime, having driven there promptly
from London, he was a man to be
marked. Taller than most of the St.
Albans officials, he remained by the
corpse in thoughtful silence, surveying
the flat countryside made dismal by
the chill drizzle, the clump of desolate
trees and shrubs to the south and the
meadow to the north.

Then he turned his attention to the
murder victim. The man appeared to
have been in his 40s, average height,
heavy-set. His skin was swarthy and
slightly pitted, and the bridge of his
nose was pinched. He wore no over-
coat; but his well-tailored suit and
shoes indicated expensive tastes. On
his left hand he wore a valuable star-
sapphire ring. Sharpe stooped over and
tried to remove the ring. It slipped
right off, and the inspector pursed his
lips thoughtfully.

On that same hand, Sharpe observed
that the knuckles were skinned, and a
more careful observation of the mur-
dered man’s face revealed a number of
bruises. His pockets were empty; and
the labels had been removed from his
jacket. Unless the man’s fingerprints
were on record, identification might
prove difficult.

As soon as the corpse was lifted onto
a stretcher, to be taken to Scotland
Yard for an autopsy, Sharpe scruti-
nized the ground for bloodstains. He
found none; nor were there any marks
to indicate that the dead man had been
dragged over the ground before being
dumped in the ditch.

The inspector talked briefly with
Constable Gerald Sykes of St. Albans,
who confirmed the fact that the mur-
der victim wasn’t familiar in the lo-
cality. Sykes added that there had
been no reports during the night of
any strange sounds or activities, but
he pointed out that the road didn't
carry much traffic and that the nearest

house was quite a distance away, so
that even the firing of a gun might pass
unheard.

“T don't think the murder was com-
mitted here," said Sharpe. "Its my
guess that the man was killed some dis-
tance away—perhaps in London, per-
haps somewhere outside the city where
shooting the man might be easier."

The constable glanced at him quiz-
zically.'

“I base that on a couple of things,”
Sharpe explained. "The blood had
congealed before the corpse was de-
posited here. That took time, half an
hour or better, I should imagine. A
drive from London would account for
that time rather neatly. Then, too, the
body was on the left side of the road,
where it would be if the murderer
were coming up from the direction of
London. If he'd just passed through
St. Albans, it would have been on the
other side."

“Dumped the dead man like a sack
of wheat, he did,” commented the con-
stable. “He must be a cold-blooded
bloke.”

HARPE chose his words tactfully.
“Tt does seem that way at first,” he
said, “but a few things make me
doubtful. For. instance, he stripped the
body to prevent identification—but he
overlooked a ring. Next, he brought the
body out here, apparently planning on
disposing of it so that it wouldn’t be
found for a while—but he didn’t know
where he was going and, in the end, he
hadn’t the faintest idea of where to
leave the corpse. My guess is he drove
around futilely looking for a spot,
with nothing to guide him except what
his headlamps revealed. Finally he
grew alarmed because daylight was
approaching, and he deposited the
body in the ditch.”

“Still,” countered the constable, “he
did put six bullets into the man.”

“A calloused killer might do just
that,” Sharpe agreed. “Yet a man in a
panic might do the same thing. He
would keep pulling the trigger until
the revolver was empty.” Then, with
a rueful smile, he added: “But whether
he has strong nerves or weak ones, he
can still lead us a jolly good chase.”

Inspector Eric Sharpe had never
been more right in his life. England’s
Scotland Yard would start the case
and the French Sûreté would finish it,
with Argentina’s State Police becom-
ing involved along the way. It began
with a corpse and would end with a
killer; and flushed into the open by
the hunt were all manner of vermin
that run on two legs.

From the very outset of the case,
Scotland Yard had trouble. The dead
man’s fingerprints weren’t on record,

and there were no immediate reports
of such a person being missed. The
autopsy revealed little that seemed
important, at first, beyond the fact
that death had occurred shortly before
midnight of January 23rd. A ballistics
expert identified the slugs as having
been fired from a Mauser .311.

With its customary thoroughness,
Scotland Yard sent out circulars bear-
ing a photograph of the dead man and
a detailed physical description, down
to the wart on the palm of his right
hand. In addition, the records of miss-
ing persons were scoured; and small
paragraphs were carefully planted in
London newspapers, calculated to catch
the eye of anyone who might have
known the murdered man.

When 48 hours went by without so
much as a telephone call concerning
the case, Inspector Sharpe grew con-
vinced that the victim must have been
involved in some kind of criminal ac-
tivity. No other explanation made
sense. If the dead man had been poorly
dressed, he might have been one of
those uprooted souls who wander in
the twilight of human society, who
count for little when they are alive—
and for nothing when they are dead.
They lie nameless and unmourned in
potter’s fields all over the world.

But this bullet-riddled corpse had
been wearing fine clothes and expen-
sive shoes. He must have known
people; he must have been engaged in
business; he must have lived some-
where and been familiar in the neigh-
borhood. Yet apparently no one had
missed him.

Te Inspector Sharpe, the opposite
had to be true. The dead man was
very much missed; but those who
missed him had no wish to have the
police probing his affairs. So they kept
silent in the hope that the corpse
would be disposed of without any fuss.
It was up to the inspector to dis-
appoint them.

He studied the autopsy report care-
fully, particularly the section—usually
considered routine—that gave a physi-
cal description of the corpse. One line
was reserved for: “Scars, Blemishes.”
The dead man had had several scars
on his face, all quite small and dating
back a number of years. But what most
interested Sharpe was a notation con-
cerning the scar of an appendix opera-
tion: “Less than six months old.”

At this point, with nothing else to
go on anyway, the inspector made
two quick assumptions and theń took
a chance. He assumed that the mur-
dered man had lived in London and
that he had been there at the time his
appendix was removed. On this basis,
Sharpe thought it was worthwhile to

85

86

try to track down the man through
the city’s hospitals.

He conferred with Dr. Felix Gins-
burgh, who had performed the post
mortem, and together they went to the
morgue to view the body again. After
scrutinizing the scar, the doctor was
convinced that the operation could
not have occurred more than six
months earlier, nor less than three
months,

“That narrows it down consider-
ably,” said Sharpe.

Dr. Ginsburgh eyed him dubiously.
“You don’t really expect to learn the
identity of this cadaver by tracing his
appendix operation, do you, Inspector?
For one thing, you would have to get
in touch with every doctor who per-
formed an appendectomy during those
three months. For another, you would
be asking them to check their memory
of a patient’s face against the photo-
graph you might send them. This is
extremely difficult. A general practi-
tioner may know most of his patients,
but a surgeon? Hardly.”

“That would be a sticky job, all
right,” admitted Sharpe. “But to tell
the truth, I had a different plan.”

“Good,” said the doctor with a shake
of his head, as though he had just
taken a temperature reading and found
his patient recovering.

“Yes,” Sharpe went on, “my plan
is to have the hospitals give me names,
addresses and phone numbers of any-
one who had an appendix operation
during those three months and who

was of the male sex between the ages
of 35 and 50. That should give me a
limited list, I should think.”

“And then?”

“Then put a telephone squad to
work, pretending to be investigating
for purposes of medical statistics. ‘Mr.
So-and-So was operated on for ap-
pendicitis on such-and-such a date.
Is his recovery satisfactory?’ Or some
such rot. For those without telephones,
we will do the same thing on foot.
Within 48 hours, doctor, I should know
whether my gamble will pay off.”

*Let's hope so—it certainly seems
clever enough.”

“One other matter,” said Sharpe.
“After a person is dead, would it be
easier or harder to remove a ring that
he wore habitually?”

“Harder, Inspector.”

Sharpe shook his head. “It bothers
the devil out of me, that ring. A star
sapphire, easily worth 75 pounds, and
yet it was still on his finger. What’s
more, it slipped off so easily, it must
have been at least one size too large.
And the inscription on it was in
French: ‘Plus que hier.’ It’s a strange
phrase—means ‘More than yesterday.’
I must confess it’s got me puzzled.”

The puzzle of the ring was to remain
long after the puzzle of the murdered
man’s identity was solved. When In-
spector Sharpe and his aides finished
sifting through the list of male ap-
pendicitis patients who had been ques-
tioned either by phone or in person,
there were only two individuals who
could not be accounted for. One was a
traveling salesman named Henry Nott.
The other was a jeweler named Melvin
Allard. 3

Nott was a married man whose wife
seemed quite unconcerned about the
fact that she hadn’t heard from her

-husband in almost three weeks. She

said this was “just his way” when he
was off on business.

“He never has nothing to say when
he’s here at home,” she explained
placidly, “so you wouldn't hardly be
expecting him to write me postcards

when he’s away, now would you?”

ROM Mrs. Nott’s description of her

husband—“bald, fat and dumpy,
but kind of cute"—he didn't seem to
be the refrigerated corpse in the
morgue; nor did the photographs that
she showed to Yard detectives re-
semble the murdered man. But orders
went out to have Henry Nott traced.

The other man, Melvin Allard, was
a bachelor. He had a flat in Pembridge
Square, a respectable middle-class
neighborhood. The people who lived
on the same floor as he did could only
describe him hazily as being “nice,”
“quiet,” and “polite.” His landlady did

better. She said he was *a big man
with a bad skin, who wore glasses and
talked with an accent." When she was
shown a photograph of the dead man,
the landlady said she was “middling
sure" that he was her tenant.

She was asked whether she would
go to the morgue to identify him, if
possible.

“Is he in one piece?” she asked.

“He is.”

“Then,” she said, crossing herself,
«rn go."

So it was that the corpse got a name
—Melvin Allard. And though, as it
soon developed, this wasn't the dead
man's real name, it was enough to
make it possible to bury the cadaver,
and to take the first steps along the
trail of the murdered.

TEAM of Yard detectives, operat-

ing under Inspector Sharpe's super-
vision, pieced together the background
of the man called Melvin Allard. It
wasn't an easy task. Everywhere they
went, they had to dredge for informa-
tion; no one had facts to volunteer.
Allard owned a small jewelry shop on
Drury Street, a drab, dimly lit place
that specialized in cheap merchandise
and tourist junk. The clerk who
worked for Allard was a thin, sickly-
looking young man named Cyril Snead.
He said he wasn't surprised at not
having seen Mr. Allard for five days—
occasionally the man was gone for
longer periods than that.

None of the wholesale representa-
tives in the jewelry trade who supplied
Allard with merchandise could say
much about him, beyond the fact that
he paid his bills by the tenth of each
month. The owners of neighboring
stores knew even less. And when the
man’s business ledger was examined by
an accountant, it became clear that the
store’s margin of profit was too slender
to have enabled Allard to live modest-
ly, let alone wear the expensive clothes
that he did.

Hospital records, supplied by St.
Luke’s, where Allard had had his
operation, revealed that he was 49
years old and of French Canadian
descent. He had named no one to be
notified in case of emergency. He had
paid his medical and surgical bill in
cash, before leaving the hospital. Per-
haps the most striking fact of all was
that during his stay at St. Luke's, he
had had just one visitor: Cyril Snead.
And Snead had gone there for business
reasons only.

Melvin Allard seemed to be a man
who lived in a world of his own.

*But I don't believe it," Inspector
Sharpe insisted. “No hermit decks
himself out as this man did, with
clothes the King could hardly afford.

And no hermit keeps his nails mani-
cured and his hair trimmed as Allard
did, unless he wants to impress some-
one—probably a woman. Furthermore,
he didn’t earn his living by legitimate
commerce, but he might have done
very well handling stolen goods.”

“And no wind of his activities reach-
ing us at the Yard?” asked one of the
inspector’s aides. “He must have been
deucedly clever."

*Not clever enough to side-step six
bullets," said Sharpe drily. “But all
that isn't important right now. What
matters is for us to find out everything
we can about this man Allard. If we
don't, we're not likely to find out
much about his murderer."

*Where do we search next?" asked
the aide.

“I don't think we'll be the one doing
the searching," replied Sharpe as he
picked up the telephone. Then, to the
operator, he said: “Please ring up In-
spector Jean Belin, Süreté Nationale."

Sharpe, who had previously cooper-
ated with Belin on criminal cases,
spoke to the French detective for a
while, sketching the outlines of the
Allard murder. When he finished pre-
senting the facts, as far as they were
known, he went on to give a few of his
opinions.

“I believe this man was a profes-
sional criminal," Sharpe told Belin,
*but he has no police record in Eng-
land. This leads me to think that he
has a record somewhere else and that
perhaps he came here because of that
record. He claimed to have been
French Canadian, and accordingly
we're asking for a report from Mon-
treal.

“But,” Sharpe went on, "there's a
greater possibility that he was French
and covered up for his accent by
claiming to be Canadian. I'd like to
send you the little we have—facts,
photographs and fingerprints—to see
whether or not you have a dossier on
the man."

“Don’t hesitate," said Belin. “PI
look into the matter myself."

This kind of cross-Channel team-
work in criminal affairs has always
been fairly common, and English and
French detectives have respect for one
another's methods—although they
both emphatically prefer their own.
The English approach crime as a kind
of chess game or problem in logic,
complete with rules and to be engaged
in only by those who observe the rules.
Clues and motives are crucially im-
portant for any detective, no matter
what his nationality, but if an English
sleuth had to choose between the two,
he would choose the clues.

The French would choose motives.
They believe that crime, like love, has

little to do with reason and everything
to do with passion. They believe that
there are no rules for crime, just as—
bien entendu—there are no rules for
love. Each man makes his own.

These sharply divergent attitudes
that characterize the English and the
French naturally lead to one funda-
mental difference in their methods of
combatting crime. A Scotland Yard de-
tective is reluctant to seek out an in-
former and will do so only at the end of
a case when he cannot make progess in
any other way. A Süreté detective be-
gins a case by conferring with his
stable of informers, and only after ex-
hausting their supply of tips will he
turn to routine police procedures.

Inspector Belin of the Süreté wasted
no time in starting affaire Kassel, as
it soon became known throughout
France. The very morning that he re-
ceived the documents from London, in-
cluding the dead man's fingerprints,
he was able to call Scotland Yard and
report that Melvin Allard was very
well known to the French police under
his real name, Max Kassel, as well as
his underworld alias, Max le Requin.
(Max the Shark).

Police records painted a graphic
portrait of the man. He had been born
in Riga in 1887, the youngest of 18
children. When he was 10 years old,
he had been sent to Paris, where he
was apprenticed to learn the fur trade.
His first arrest occurred six years later,
for theft. At the time he boasted that
he deliberately allowed himself to be
caught so that he would be sent to jail,
where he intended to learn a better
trade.

E did. Max the Shark emerged from

prison to become a professional
criminal. From the ranks of his fellow
prisoners he recruited those who would
soon be released and welded them into
an underworld gang. In a grim way,
young Kassel was ahead of his time—
he belonged in the modern era of the
specialist. For he insisted that every
member of his gang should be skilled
in one branch of crime or another:
pickpocket, safecracker, confidence
man, jewel thief—any specialty would
do.

Max the Shark went further. He
succeeded in persuading several of his
men to learn foreign languages, and
they concentrated afterward on fleecing
those tourists whose language they
spoke. One man, Etienne Suet, ad-
mitted when he was finally captured
that he had studied with a private
tutor, a young American artist, so
that he could speak ‘American, not
English.” He had then specialized in
cultivating the friendship of lone
American women in Paris and, both

figuratively and literally, stripping
them of everything he could.

Understandably enough, there was
a part of the Kassel record that In-
spector Belin did not forward to Lon-
don. This concerned one of Max the
Shark’s most audacious stunts, a coup
that was the talk of Paris for several
years after it was ultimately revealed
and that still stirs up conversation in
bars along the streets of the Bastille
section.

Kassel recruited a young fellow
named Vito Caroli, whose father was
French but whose mother was an un-
married Italian girl living in Paris,
and, since Caroli had no record of
arrests, Max the Shark pulled certain
strings and had him admitted to the
Paris police force. Caroli served as an
agent de police for the Paris prefec-
ture, which differs from the Süreté
Nationale in the same way the New
York police differ from the F.B.I., and
for four years he had a spotless record.

Then on a night in April, 1919, two
men held up a swank night club on
the Boulevard de Clichy and, while
escaping in a Citroen, they crashed
into another car. One of the two died
instantly; the other, Vito Caroli, lived
long enough to want to clear his con-
science. He had simultaneously en-
gaged in a police and a criminal career
—but his chief utility to Max the
Shark was as an informer!

He quoted Kassel as saying, “They
have theirs; why shouldn't we have
ours?"

For three years the Paris police
stewed over this insult, much to the
amusement of the men at the Sûreté.
To make matters worse, when Kassel
was arrested in 1922 on a charge of
trafficking in drugs, the arrest was
made by the Süreté.

In 1931, Max the Shark, paroled as
a result of political pressure, slipped
back into the underworld. He was seen
in his old haunts near Place de la
Bastille; but he was a solitary figure.
Convinced that he had been betrayed
into the hands of the Süreté by some-
one who knew him, he determined to
be as independent as possible. And
for a number of years, the only activity
of Kassel's that the police had on rec-
ord was his traveling. Every six
months he made a trip to Buenos
Aires and back, for reasons that could
not—for a while—be determined.

On August 9, 1932, the body of a
lovely young girl was fished out of the
Seine. Her name Maria Madriaga; she
was 19 years old; and she had commit-
ted suicide. Police inquiries revealed
that she had been working as a prosti-
tute, and that her maquereau was a
man called Biguet. He vanished before
he could be questioned, but there were

87

enough threads of information to link
him with Max the Shark. Though
there could be no proof, there now
seemed little doubt that Kassel’s trips
to Buenos Aires were for the purpose
of rounding up young girls to be
brought to Paris as prostitutes.

Lacking the evidence they would
need to bring him to trial, French au-
thorities took the only other step they
could. Since he was not a French citi-
zen, they withdrew his carte de rési-
dence and he was forced to leave the
country.

T seemed clear that Kassel had

crossed the Channel and lived for
the last four years in England under
the name of Melvin Allard. On the
strength of the Sûreté report, Scotland
Yard was prepared to launch a full-
scale investigation of the man's activi-
ties during this period; but the Eng-
lish felt that a simultaneous two-
pronged probe would be most effective.
Would the Sûreté join forces with
them?

Inspector Belin pledged his full co-
operation. He promptly assigned the
task to one of his most brilliant asso-
ciates, Robert Martin, a blunt outspok-
en man who looked younger than his 35

years. Martin was considered a little
strange by some of his colleagues be-
cause his entire life seemed to be ab-
sorbed by his profession. He was as
fascinated by criminals of all nationali-
ties as other men are by athletes, and
he could reel off their names, records
and idiosyncrasies without effort. At
home he had an unparalleled crime
library, and he would haunt the book
stalls along the Seine in search of a
new leaflet or book for his collection.

Martin started on Kassel's trail by
consulting, as usual, with his informers.
This time, unfortunately, he could tell
them more than they could tell him.
Kassel's murder took them by surprise.
In return, the only point they could
establish for Martin was that during
the past few years, Max the Shark had
been seen cruising around Paris but
keeping well out of sight. As far as
anyone knew, he was still trafficking in
women. But none of the informers
could explain how he had been op-
erating.

Later that day, Martin went into
the Latin Quarter and stopped off at
the Spanish Mission on Rue Thouin.
In a small, simply-furnished office
decorated only with several religious
paintings and a statue of the Virgin

Mary, Martin talked with a Spaniard
who was old and yet ageless. Dark
eyes, expressionless, set deep in the
weathered dark skin of his face, the
old Spaniard listened while Martin ex-
plained why he had come.

He identified himself as a Sûreté `
detective and said that he was seeking
a murderer. “But the man who was
killed,” Martin went on, “was also
evil, so that to find out who killed him,
we must make our way through a maze
of filth. Perhaps, if we're lucky, we'll
be able to punish the murderer and
clean up the filth as well."

The old Spaniard’s nod was the ges-
ture of one who speaks another lan-
guage, signifying only that he had
understood what had been said.

“The dead man had profited from
prostitution," Martin continued. “We
know that he recruited young girls for
this purpose—many of them from
Argentina."

The dark, inscrutable eyes remained
fixed on Martin's face.

“I want to speak to any Argentinian
girl,” the detective said with greater
urgency, ^who might have known this
man, Max Kassel. He was also known
as Max the Shark, and as Melvin Al-
lard. I swear that I will not betray
her trust."

“It is a hard thing you ask,” replied

the old Spaniard slowly. “Those who

come to us are seeking our help—it
would be strange for us to turn around
and ask them for help. And yet per-
haps this is His way of helping many
others, who will not come to us. Or
who cannot.”

N the days the followed, Martin

spent much of his time prowling
around the Bastille area, moving from
one bistro to another in search of
scraps of information. He soon realized
how tough his task was. It was bad
enough that lips were sealed, as they
would ordinarily be, no matter what
crime he was probing. But in l'affaire
Kassel, when he did manage to pry a
few open, he realized that Max the
Shark had become an underworld
legend and was the subject of a thou-
sand untrue stories. “Facts” that were
fearfully whispered to Martin turned
out to be pure fiction.

One peculiar reference, however, was
made by a Rue de Lapp pimp and also
by a bistro owner. They said they had
heard that Max the Shark was still
“selling the same product,” but that
he was paying off men. They didn’t
know what the payoff was for; but
they were annoyed because the money
was going to Englishmen, and they
held it against Kassel for not cutting
Frenchmen in on the racket, whatever
it was. French criminals are no less

chauvinistic than their fellow citizens
—anything an Englishman can do, a
Frenchman can do better.

Martin was convinced that there
was an element of truth in what had
been told him, although he couldn’t
puzzle it out. Since prostitution was
legal in Paris, as long as the girl regis-
tered with the police and had periodic
examinations to make sure that she
wasn’t diseased, the city had become
one of the world’s principal auction
blocks for the peddling of females.

Not all of this was on the “retail”
level, where the customer is served. A
considerable amount of “wholesale”
prostitution was carried out in Paris,
where groups of young girls, freshly
imported into the city, were siphoned
off for activity elsewhere. Many of
these girls came from poorer countries,
like Argentina, and they were grateful
for having the chance to earn more
money in a year or so than they could
hope to see at home in a lifetime.

AX the Shark had simply capital-
ized on the situation. But in such
cases he was paid off by men who
needed new stock for their brothels. For
Martin to be told that wily Max Kassel
was paying Englishmen for some kind
of service rendered, was mystifying.

On February 3rd, 11 days after the
body had been found, Sûreté detective
Robert Martin got the first solid lead
in the case. A scrawled note in the mail
reached him at headquarters on the
Rue des Saussaies. It contained
nothing but an address and a time—
“75, rue de Charonne... #119...
5:30 p.m.” and the phrase, “Hasta la
vista." Nothing more was needed.

It was one of those large buildings
that formerly provided apartments for
the wealthy but that now are used for
the most part as offices. Outside the
front door, there were plaques identify-
ing the businesses located in the build-
ing. Only the concierge, however,
knew who else lived there.

Martin took the elevator to the
fourth floor, which was as far as it
went. The corridor stretched left and
right; but a flight of wooden steps
circled the elevator shaft, leading up-
ward. Martin went up to the next
floor, pushed open a scarred wooden
door and stepped into the garret cor-
ridor. It was dark and not wide enough
for a man to stretch out his hands, and
a tall man would have had to walk
along it with head bowed.

Room numbers started at 110. Mar-
tin knocked on the door to 119. The
woman inside didn't ask who it was.
She simply said, “Entrez!” And when
he stepped into the room, he saw that
she was lying in bed.

She cocked her head to one side as

though gauging him as a man. “So
youre the flic,’ she said. “I’m
honored."

He ignored the sarcasm, and there
seemed no point in explaining that—
as foreigners so often do—she had her
slang mixed up. A flic is a prefect cop
and not a Süreté detective, with only
this in common: she probably hated
them both.

Martin took off his hat and nodded
politely.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said.
“Im not waiting for customers to
knock on my door. I'm not that lazy.
But Im sick."

“I know,” replied Martin, taking in
the purplish shadows under her eyes
and the dull tone of her olive skin.
Even her long black hair seemed dull
and dry, as though it hadn't been cared
for in quite a while.

She smiled ruefully. “They say you
French are romantic. You're not.
You're very practical A Spanish
gentleman, now, he would never have
agreed with me so quickly. He would
have told me that I look beautiful,
that I didn't look sick at all, and that
if I really were sick, I should stay that
way forever because it made me so
much more beautiful!"

“TIl remember next time," said Mar-
tin. *Are you Spanish?"

“My parents were. I was born in
Argentina."

*How did you get to Paris?"

*You know as well as I do."

“Im sorry," he said, “but I take
nothing for granted."

She shrugged. “How dull you must
be!?

*Maybe so," he replied calmly.
"Thats my job. Now, why are you
willing to talk to me?"

*Oh, come on!" she said with some
annoyance. "You've got more finesse
than that! Does a man ask a woman
why she's willing to sleep with him?
No, he's just glad that she is—and
that's that. I’m willing to talk to you
about Monsieur the Shark. Just be
glad that I am."

Martin stared at her with astonish-
ment, and when he spoke again, his
voice reflected a new respect. Would
you tell me, please, what you know of
Max Kassel?"

She was 17, she told the detective,
when she met Kassel in Buenos Aires.
At the time she was selling flowers;
but the Shark convinced her that she
had other things to sell, and at a far
greater profit. He brought her to Paris
and personally saw to it that she was
placed with a woman who introduced
her into wealthy circles. Kassel him-
self visited her frequently.

When he was forced to leave France,
he planned to have her go with him.

But shortly before that she had to
have an abortion, and because of
complications, she wasn’t strong
enough to make the trip. Though he
returned to Paris occasionally, always
managing to spend time with her, he
never again proposed that she accom-
pany him to England.

Four months earlier, when he last
visited Paris, Kassel had seemed
nervous and had spoken of the possi-
bility of being murdered. He had said
that there were several men who owed
him money and who might consider
killing him as the quickest way to
settle their debts. Then, too, he had
heard a rumor that a brother of one
of the Argentinian girls that he had
brought to Paris, and who had recently
died after an' abortion, was coming
over to avenge the family's honor.

“The family name is Sarria,” she
said. “The brother's name is Jorge.
But I do not think he did it."

“Why not?”

She hesitated and then replied, *I
just don’t. Let it go at that.”

“All right. Did Kassel ever mention
other names to you?”

“I imagine he did, but I never paid
attention to such things, and I can't
remember any names right now."

“Except Jorge Sarria.”

“Except Jorge Sarria,” she echoed
unhappily.

“How do you happen to remember
that particular name?”

Her eyes blazed. “You ask too many
damn questions!”

“Tm sorry. That's my job."

“Then ask me something else."

* D'accord. Did Kassel keep return-
ing to Paris just to see you?" :

The anger melted. “That was gal-
lant," she said with a fleeting smile.
“But the answer is no. He came on
business."

“What business?"

HE seemed surprised. “You mean
you don’t know—or you aren’t tak-
ing it for granted?”

“I don't know.”

“He came to Paris to arrange mar-
riages," she said coolly.

“What the devil are you talking
about?” Martin burst out.

“Its quite simple," she explained.
*A girl can make more money in Lon-
don than in Paris—especially if she's
been around too long over here. She's
a new face over there, and besides, the
competition isn't so strong. But a girl
can't pick herself up and go live in
London. She needs a passport—if she
wants to work, that is."

“What’s that got to do with mar-
riages?”

“Everything. Max would find some
hard-up Englishman who would do

89

90

anything for a few pounds and who
happened to have a passport. Max
would bring him to Paris and arrange
for the Englishman to marry some girl
that the Shark wanted to ‘import.’
Once the ceremony was over and the
girl had a British passport, the English-
man would collect his fee and go his
way, while Max and the girl would go
theirs—back to London, of course.”

For a few minutes Martin silently
considered the scheme. It was beauti-
fully, cunningly simple—and almost
foolproof. And it must have been a
rich racket. A payoff from the girl;
and a payoff from an English pimp
—or did Kassel keep his own stable
in London? Either way he would
profit handsomely. Operating expenses
couldn’t have been much, either. How
many pounds would a hungry English-
man require to cross the Channel and
“marry” a woman he would never see
again?

FTER further questioning, Martin

learned that Max the Shark had
dreamed up the scheme, but during
the past year or so he had discovered
that others were making use of the
idea. So far, all such operations had
been kept under cover, which wasn’t
too hard to do because no law was
being broken. The marriage law was
simply being perverted.

One name did emerge from this dis-
cussion. The Argentine girl recalled
having heard Kassel speak with bitter-
ness of someone named Carpentier. She
didn’t know much about this man, but
sle was quite certain that he was op-
erating in the Bastille section.

Martin’s index-card memory didn’t
have to be told much about Carpentier.
Like Kassel, he too recruited prosti-
tutes and peddled them; and ever
since Max the Shark had been pushed
out of France, it was Carpentier who
dominated the dung-heap.

When Martin felt he had nothing
more to learn from the girl, he tried
again with the question she had side-
stepped before. Why was she telling
him all this?

When she answered, her voice had a
different quality. It was quiet and
earnest. “I don’t know what difference
this should make to you,” she said,
“or even whether you will understand.
But I have done many wrong things
in my life; and now, because I want to
cleanse my hands and my soul, I am
trying to say things that I believe
must be said.”

Martin was an atheist, but he
thought he understood anyway. Not
until /’affaire Kassel had come to a
Close, however, did he really under-
stand.

As Martin was leaving, the girl

asked: “Don’t you want to find out my
name?”

He colored. *I expected to find out
afterward. I didn’t think—”

“Tt’s Maria Cintron,” she said, and
her voice was as it had been before.
“Tf you want my fingerprints, flic,
come back tomorrow with an ink pad
—and you can hold my hand!"

Martin returned to Sûreté head-
quarters in the Ministry of the In-
terior building and conferred with his
chief, Inspector Belin. Together they
drew up a report which was immedi-
ately sent to Scotland Yard. Belin
made clear that his men would con-
tinue to work on the case, searching
for Carpentier and anyone else who
might throw light on the murder. In
addition, they intended to crack down
on the fake-marriage racket and hoped
the British would do the same. He also
explained that he had made no effort
to communicate with the Argentine
police since he thought Inspector
Sharpe himself might prefer to initiate
the contact and investigate the Sarria
angle.

Scotland Yard hadn't been marking
time. After having gotten Belin's first
report, summarizing Max Kessel’s
criminal record, Inspector Sharpe and
his men had sought for threads that
would tie the dead man to London
prostitution rings. This proved diffi-
cult. Kassel, with his customary cun-
ning, had covered his tracks well.

Once again, however, Sharpe had op-
erated with uncanny intuition. He was
convinced that even though Kassel’s
main source of income might have
been as a merchant of sex, he still
must have picked up additional money
as a jewel fence. Otherwise why would
he have set up a shop? So when
Sharpe learned, through an inter-de-
partmental notice, that Yard detec-
tives had turned up a substantial
amount of stolen gems, he arranged
for one of his men to be included in
the continuing investigation. This de-
tective was to concentrate exclusively
on ferreting out any possible connec-
tions between the recovered gems and
London prostitutes or procurers.

Luck was with the inspector. Among
the stolen jewels there had been a set
of matched emeralds, mounted on a
ring and a pin, that belonged to the
Marquise de St. Sauveur. The theft
had occurred the previous November,
when the marquise was stopping at the
George V Hotel in Paris. From the
pawnbroker, whom Yard detectives
had nabbed with these jewels, among
others, they could learn only that a
prostitute named Suzy Preston had
left them in his care. The pawnbroker
insisted he hadn't reported receiving
them to the police, as legally he was

required to, because the girl didn't
pawn them. She merely had asked him
to keep them in his safe.

It sounded like a ridiculous story;
yet Inspector Sharpe was interested in
it. He tried to locate the girl named
Suzy Preston but failed. He managed
to learn, however, that she was French
and had only come to London a few
months earlier. Preston was her mar-
ried name, yet no one who knew her
had ever met her husband.

Backtracking still further, Sharpe
was well on his way to establishing
Kassel's part in a fake-marriage racket
when he got the second report from the
Süreté, confirming all that he already
suspected from the evidence at hand.
But Sharpe kept a man probing in this
area and also alerted the London bob-
bies to keep on the watch for Mrs.
Preston. She had fled from her flat on
Great Newport Street long before any
police activity threatened her. Why?

On the basis of the Süreté's second
report, Sharpe launched a new inquiry,
aimed at evaluating the Argentine an-
gle in the case. It quickly proved to be
important. A telephone call to the
Maritime Commission established one
significant fact: on January 9th—just
15 days before the corpse of Max Kas-
sel was dumped in the ditch—a seaman
named Jorge Queralto Sarria had been
reported missing off the Argentine
freighter Lobo Rojo. The ship had
sailed without him; but the man had
not yet turned up in the British Isles.

Sharpe cabled Argentina's Policia
Nacional at their headquarters in Bue-
nos Aires, requesting all available in-
formation on the missing seaman, par-
ticularly in reference to his family.
While awaiting the reply, the inspector
arranged for Scotland Yard agents to
cooperate with the Maritime Commis-
sion's alien seamen division in hunting
for Sarria. All ships bound for Buenos
Aires were to be thoroughly searched.

HEN the Argentine police report

reached Inspector Sharpe several
days later, it dovetailed with the infor-
mation that had been forwarded from
France. Jorge Sarria's sister Asunción
had left Buenos Aires with “a French-
man" in 1931, expecting to marry him.
Subsequent letters to her family re-
vealed only that she was not married.
She never explained how she was liv-
ing in France.

After her death, which resulted from
an abortion, the truth was finally told
in a letter written by a grieving girl
friend. The Sarria family did not take

. this letter to the police—as, naturally,

the Policia Nacional believed they
should have—but brother Jorge set
out to have his own vengeance.

It looked as though he had had ‘it.

The search for Jorge Sarria was in-
tensified. But for a while it seemed as
though, after Kassel’s death, the earth
had swallowed up everyone who might
possibly know something about it.
Neither Sarria nor Suzy Preston nor
the Frenchman named Carpentier
could be found.

Doggedly Inspector Sharpe kept up
his hunt for clues, sifting through evi-
dence two and three times. The dead
man’s business ledger monopolized his
attention for one full morning, as
though its accounts might be some
kind of hieroglyphic which, if properly
interpreted, might then lead to the
killer. But all Sharpe learned was that
there were five customers who, at the
time of Kassel’s murder, had owed him
substantial sums of money.

HAT afternoon Sharpe went to the
Drury Street jewelry shop. It was no
longer in business but, under the su-
pervision of the law, clerk Cyril Snead
was liquidating the stock and settling

outstanding accounts. The inspector ..

questioned him quietly, trying to over-
come the young man's obvious ner-
vousness. This considerateness was
born of experience—an overwrought
person is unlikely to remember things
well.

So, for a spell, the inspector and the
clerk talked of trivial things. Gradually
Sharpe worked around to the subjects
he wanted to reach, and his patience
paid off. Cyril Snead began recalling
details that he had previously over-
looked. His bony face knotted in con-
centration, Snead described a number
of "regular" customers, individuals
who returned to the shop a number of
times to make small purchases, or just
to talk to ^Mr. Allard."

“Tt was queer,” said Snead, “how
many pretty girls come by to see the
governor. You’d have thought he was
a blooming movie star, you would!”

Sharpe didn’t bother clarifying the
matter, but he took a slip of paper
from his pocket and read a description
to Snead. “Honey-blonde hair,” he
said, “blue eyes, high cheekbones, 5’2”,
110 Ibs., speaks English with a French
accent. Do you recall such a girl?”

The clerk’s thin face lit up. “Miss
Suzy! I remember her, all right!”

“How often did she visit the store?”

“Not often enough,” Snead said sor-
rowfully.

Sharpe remained patient. “How
many times? Two? Three? And when
was the last time?”

"Td say four times, sir. The last
time? I think it was the last day I saw
the governor. She come by in the aft-
ernoon and seemed disappointed at
him not being here. But when I told
her to wait, he'd be right back—it

wasn't true, only I liked the idea of
having her around—she said she'd see
him later; and she left."

“Does this mean anything to you?”
‘Sharpe held out his hand, and on the
palm rested the star sapphire that the
murdered man was wearing.

“No, sir.”

* You're sure?”

The clerk nodded. “But Mr. Allard
was queery in some ways,” he added.
“He handled orders that I never knew
about, and I don't think we kept them
on our books.

“I shouldn't be surprised," the in-
spector commented drily. “Tell me,
who did your engraving?”

Snead gave him the name and ad-
dress of an engraver whose shop was
just a short distance away.

“One last question. When I looked
over your ledger this morning, I no-
ticed there were five individuals who
owed Allard money. Have you col-
lected what was due?"

Snead looked pained. “With the
governor dead, you know, they’re in
no rush. They’ve all paid something on
account, though—all except Mr. Ver-
non, and I haven’t spoken to him yet.
He’s in France on business.”

“Do you know the man?”

“Oh, yes," the clerk replied. “He was
a friend of the governor’s. I’m sure
he'll be reasonable."

As a result of his conversation with
Cyril Snead, Inspector Sharpe went
right to see the engraver. The man
recognized the star-sapphire ring as
one that Allard had given him to en-
grave in a hurry. By consulting his
records, he determined that the ring
had been handed to him the morning
of January 23rd and that Allard him-
self had picked it up that afternoon.
He didn't know the meaning of the
inscription; he had simply copied it
from the paper on which the words
had been printed: "Plus que hier"—
more than yesterday.

91

92

Back at the Yard, Sharpe tried
piecing together a few fragments of
information. The last day of his life,
Max Kassel had been very much con-
cerned with the star-sapphire ring. He
might have seen Suzy Preston; at
least she expected to see him. Her role
in the crime seemed to be growing in
importance.

The inspector’s curiosity was also
aroused by Cyril Snead’s remark that
“Mr. Vernon” was a friend of the dead
man, and that he would be “reason-
able" about repaying the money he
owed. According to the ledger, Vernon
owed 100 pounds. There was no speci-
fication of what the sum was for—

whether as payment for jewelry or as .

a personal loan. Whatever it was, how-
ever, Vernon had owed Kassel the
money for five months. No other debt
had been outstanding so long. And
Vernon was in France.

Inspector Sharpe wanted to know
more about Robert Vernon, and he in-
tended finding out for himself. But, as
it turned out, he couldn't. Events be-
gan breaking too fast, and he had all
he could do to keep up with them. So
Yard detective Maury Smith took on
the Vernon assignment, while Sbarpe

coordinated the efforts of more than 15
investigators—English, French and
Argentine—who were devoting full
time to the Kassel case.

A major development occurred on
February 10, 1936. It occurred, as
these things so often do, by accident.
A flash fire broke out in a cheap room-
ing house in Southampton, and several
men were trapped by flames and
smoke. By the time firemen got their
ladders up, a few of the roomers had
been overcome by smoke. No one died
in the blaze, but those men who were
smoke victims had to be given emer-
gency oxygen and were then rushed
to the hospital.

Several hours after they were admit-
ted to the hospital, a night nurse, mak-
ing her usual rounds, discovered one
bed to be empty. A thorough search
was launched, but the missing man
wasn't found. Hospital authorities im-
mediately called in the police, and a
wide-scale hunt was soon under way.

Since the man was wearing just pa-
jamas and the night was cold and
bleak, and since he must have been
weakened by the smoke poisoning, it
hardly seemed possible that he could
avoid being caught for long. Yet he

led the police a weird chase. During
the night he ran into a drunken sea-
man, and before the sailor knew what
was happening, he was minus his pea
jacket and his shoes. Not far away,
the police later recovered his shoes;
they hadn't fitted.

He was able to hide away in the
dark; but shortly after dawn reports
trickled in from people who had no-
ticed a “queer sort of fellow" walking
barefoot through the city. Most of the
reports came from the dock area, where
stevedores and laborers were going to
work. They thought the man must be
mad, and they said it would be easy
to track him down because now his
bleeding feet were blazing the trail.

In a way, they were right: the man
was a little out of his mind. This be-
came clear when they caught him. He
had trudged through the port area un-
til he came to the dock where an Ar-
gentine ship was preparing to sail, and
there he stood, like some stricken ani-
mal, staring at it from the wharf until
the police came to get him. He made
no protest as they led him away.

UT Jorge Queralto Sarria was not

insane. Fever had temporarily un-
balanced his mind,. and, obeying some
kind of primitive instinct, he had made
his way to the ship that represented
freedom to him; yet enough of his
senses remained so that he made no
attempt to go aboard, aware that this
was impossible.

When Southampton officials notified
Scotland Yard that they had seized
Sarria, Inspector Sharpe said that he
would go down to question the man.
But this had to be delayed for almost
48 hours, until hospital doctors felt
the young Argentine seaman was in
possession of all his senses. There was
a further complication resulting from
the fact that Sarria was a foreign na-
tional and had to be accorded special
consideration. The Argentine Embassy
was requested to have a representative
on hand when Sarria was to be interro-
gated.

This took place in a private room in
the hospital. Sharpe was at a disad-
vantage because it was a small room
and there were too many people pres-
ent: Dr. H. L. Flick, attached to the
hospital staff; Mr. Wallace Stackpool,
one of the hospital’s administrative
officers; Señor Carlos Quesada, from
the Embassy; Sgt. Frank Owens, a
Southampton police officer who was to
serve as translator; and a police secre-
tary to record the questioning. Under
these circumstances, Sharpe had little
hope of achieving any kind of personal
relationship with young Sarria.

Sarria was 23 years old, a short,
wiry, high-strung fellow with dark

skin and handsome features. He still
hadn’t regained all his strength, and
much of the time he lay back against
the pillows, hands limp and eyes closed,
answering questions in a voice that
seemed to come from a distance; but
occasionally his emotions would flare
up—he would sit straight, eyes wide
open and smoldering, hands clenched,
and a torrent of Spanish would burst
from his lips.

His story was simple. He had found
out, from the girl who had written his
family about his sister’s death, that
Max Kassel was living in London un-
der the name of Allard. Sarria had
shipped out on a freighter bound for
Southampton, intending to kill Kassel.
But he hadn’t succeeded. Someone else
had done the job first.

“You jumped ship January 9th,”
Sharpe reminded him, through the in-
terpreter. “You had two weeks to ac-
complish your goal.”

*[ didn’t have much money,” the
interpreter echoed Sarria, “and I do
not speak English. To find the man
was almost impossible. I couldn’t just
go up to a policeman and ask for di-
rections, you know!”

“But you did eventually find Kas-
sel?”

“Yes. I wrote to the girl in France.
She told me where to find a girl in
London who would know.”

Inspector Sharpe recorded the name
and address of the girl for later veri-
fication. Further questioning brought
from Sarria the admission that he had
tracked Kassel to his flat in Pem-
bridge Square, and that he also knew
of Kassel’s store on Drury Street. The
young Spaniard insisted, however, that
he learned all this only a few days be-
fore Kassel disappeared from sight. At
that time, he thought Kassel had some-
how gotten wind that he was right.on
his trail and had hurriedly left London.

“I can’t read English,” Sarria said
to the interpreter, “so I didn’t read
about the murder in the newspapers.
But I thought maybe the man went. to
France to get away from me, and I
wrote to the girl again, asking if she
had seen him. That’s how I found out
he was dead.”

HARPE stopped him at this point,
made him repeat what he had said
and got him to swear that it was true.
Then Sharpe made a note of this girl’s
name and address, too. If Sarria were
telling the truth, and if the girl had
saved his letter, his innocence would
be quite strongly established. If she
had destroyed the letter, much would
depend on her credibility as a witness.
Looked at from the other point of
view, however, there was little that
tied the young Spaniard to the crime.

He could have done it; and he had a
motive; but beyond that it was all
conjecture. There were no witnesses,
nor was there any evidence. Even the
murder weapon hadn’t been located.
Only an outright confession from Sar-
ria could establish his guilt—if he were
guilty.

Inspector Sharpe had one other rea-
son for not being convinced that this
was the murderer. If Sarria had slain
Kassel, he might very well have put
six bullets into his victim’s body in a
surge of rage. But why would he have
gone to the trouble of transporting the
corpse to St. Albans, and above all
else, why would he have bothered to
strip it of any identifying marks?

Back in London, Sharpe had a con-
ference with his associate, Maury
Smith, who had been intensively dig-
ging into the past of the man named
Robert Vernon. He was prepared to
present quite a number of interesting
findings.

#1: Vernon had a criminal record.
His last sentence was seven to 10 years
for forgery, and he had been out of
prison on parole for only nine months.

#2: He had become involved in the
prostitution racket. Although the de-
tails hadn't been nailed down yet, it
seemed clear that he had been coop-
erating with Kassel, taking the “im-
ported" French girls for business pur-
poses. Since many of them could not
speak English, he put them on call in-
stead of making them streetwalkers.

#3: Vernon had disappeared from
his usual haunts within a day or so of
Kassel’s murder. He was supposed to.
have gone to France on business. Since
he had no right to do this without first
notifying the Parole Board, which he
had not done, Vernon was automatical-
ly subject to arrest.

#4: Suzy Preston, the prostitute
who was being sought for further ques-
tioning on the stolen emeralds, was one
of Vernon’s women. There was a good
possibility that she had become a
scource of contention between Vernon
and Kassel.

It was this murder case that In-
spector Sharpe was later to use when
he gave a series of lectures at Cam-
bridge University on “Crime, the
Criminal and the Criminologist," as an
illustration of what he called “the trial-
and-error method." Some crimes are
solved as a result of making progress
step by step. This doesn't happen too
often, but such instances of classic de-
duction are a delight to students of
homicide. Then there are cases where
the solution results from an investi-
gator's vigilance and a pure stroke of
chance. The majority of crimes fall in-
to this category, much to the dismay
of detection purists.

And then there are cases like the
Kassel murder, where the keywords
are patience and perseverance. The
detective finds himself wandering in a
maze, moving out of one blind alley
into another. It is the toughest test of
his will power and his ability first to
sift through contradictory evidence and
then to integrate what remains.

What remained in the Kassel case
were two possible suspects, one with an
admitted motive, the other with an ap-
parent motive—and not a shred of
evidence linking either of them to the
murder. And now the investigation was
being bounced back to France like a
ping-pong ball. A search would have
to be organized over there. Three peo-
ple were wanted for questioning. In his
report, Inspector Sharpe listed their
names and everything he knew about
them. There were Robert Vernon and
Suzy Preston, formerly Suzy Delatour,
thought to be hiding together some-
where in Paris.

And then there was the Argentine
girl who had started Sarria on his voy-
age of vengeance and who now might
be able to clear him of being involved
in the actual murder. If she still had
the letter that he had written, dated
after the slaying but asking if she had
seen Kassel in Paris, it would be strong
evidence in his favor. It would not,
however, be conclusive. There would
still be the strange coincidence of the
murder occurring precisely when Sar-
ria had succeeded in locating Max the
Shark. It seemed too perfectly timed
to be an accident.

HE name of the girl that Sarria

claimed to have written to had no
particular significance for Inspector
Sharpe—but when the report arrived
at the Sûreté, it startled Detective
Robert Martin. It was a name, and an
address, that was familiar to him. The
address was 75, rue de Charonne; and
the name was Maria Cintron.

He remembered her telling him: “I
am trying to say things that I think
must be said."

Why? What did she know that she
hadn't yet explained? What guilt lay
so heavily on her soul that she had
finally been compelled to seek relief
and, in seeking it, to tell a detective
as much as she dared?

Martin would have to find out. But
seeing her had to come second. The
first move would be to get hold of Rob-
ert Vernon and the woman, Suzy, if the
pair were still in Paris. This meant
checking with informers and simul-
taneously throwing out a dragnet. It
proved to be simpler than had been ex-
pected. Vernon was an unfamiliar face
on Parisian streets; but Suzy was al-
most as well known as the Eiffel Tow-

93

94

er. She had clearly been trying to keep
out of sight and had consequently been
spotted only at night. These reports
came from the 10th arrondissement,
so every rooming house and cheap ho-
tel in the section was scrutinized.

That did it. They picked up her
trail on Rue Mazagran, which, like
many Paris streets, is just a block long
and stays out of the flow of traffic,
making it easy for someone to hide
away there. Suzy was kept under close
watch for hours, when it was learned
that Vernon wasn’t with her, in the be-
lief that she would lead detectives to
him. But she remained in her room in
the run-down hotel, except for a brief
trip to buy bread, cheese and wine.

In the end, it was Vernon who came
to Suzy. He walked into the place
without any apparent concern, as
though he imagined himself to be in
the clear. Although it was dark, the
plain-clothes man loitering near the
door recognized him from photographs
that Scotland Yard had sent over. At
his signal, two other detectives made
their way into the hotel and went up-
stairs to make the arrest.

They found they had a tigress by
the tail. Suzy exploded with a brand
of fury that only a French female can
summon in times of emergency, while
Vernon stood by and watched. Despite
the fact that Suzy's face was twisted
with anger, there was a savage kind of

beauty about her—the dark blue eyes,
narrowed, and the lips, sensual and full
but now taut as she cursed the de-
tectives, not in the high-pitched voice
of the unnerved woman but with the
low, vibrating throb of the passionate
female. ;

They waited her out. When finally
her emotion was spent, they closed in
and told her to put on her coat and
come along quietly. They didn't have
to tell Vernon. He hadn't had time to
take off his coat; and he didn't seem
capable of resisting. He seemed cer-
tainly incapable of murder, this slen-
der, stoop-shouldered man, who fol-
lowed the detectives like a dog trained
to heel.

With the two behind bars, Inspector
Belin and Robert Martin decided to
hold off on questioning them until In-
spector Sharpe could fly ovér from
England. He told them over the phone
that he would leave at six A.M. and
would be at Süreté headquarters the
first thing in the morning.

Although by then it was getting late,
Martin wanted to have all loose ends
tied up before the English inspector ar-
rived; and so he went to pay another
visit to 75, rue de Charonne.

HEN he rapped on the door to

Room 119, a man in pajamas an-
swered. He growled that he didn't
know who had lived in the place before
him, and why didn't Martin go ask the
concierge as he damn well should have
in the first place?

The old woman who was the care-
taker had been sleeping, too, and she
was equally furious until she learned
that he was a detective. Then she
fawned on him. Since she had taken
out her false teeth for the night, her
words were garbled and Martin had a
hard time understanding much of what
she said. But he gathered that Maria
Cintron had been sick for several
weeks and hadn't been able to pay her
rent, nor had she been able to afford a
doctor. According to the concierge, she
had gone up with some soup one day
and found the girl unconscious. When
this was reported to the prefecture,
Maria Cintron was taken to Pean
Hospital on Rue de la Santé.

Martin called the hospital and
learned that the girl was still there.
She had had pneumonia and her condi-
tion when admitted was critical; but
she was expected to pull through now.
If Martin wanted to question her,
however, he would have to come there
early the next morning.

So it was that l'affaire Kassel stood
teetering on the brink of a solution as
February 16th dawned, bright and
sunny and cold, 23 days aíter the dis-
covery of the murdered man's body.

At eight A.M., Martin sat at the bed-
side of Maria Cintron. He told her of
what had happened in England, with
the arrest of Jorge Sarria and his im-
plication in Kassel’s murder. The Sár-
eté detectives made no mention, how-
ever, of the young Spaniard’s state-
ment about having written letters to
her. Instead, he asked the girl if there
was anything she had not told him be-
fore which she might want to discuss
now.

ARIA Cintron’s illness seemed to
have sucked the juices of life from
her body. With her eyes sunk deep in
their sockets and the flesh of her face
wasted away, the bony structure of her
head was painfully apparent. And when
she spoke, her sentences occasionally
trailed off into silence. But after a few
moments, during which she rallied her
strength, she would continue again.
“T know Jorge Sarria,” she whis-
pered. “You know I know him, so you
wouldn’t be here unless you knew
about the letters, too. That’s how I
could tell you what I did—Max wasn’t
aware of anything. Max didn’t dream
anyone would ever dare try to...

“I wrote to Jorge. I wanted him to
learn how his sister had died. I wanted
him to hate Max as I hated Max be-
cause I thought Jorge might try to
kill him. And I wanted him killed, not
because he taught me to sell my body
without telling me that I was also
selling my soul, but because he no
longer wanted me, soul or body. He
went to England and left me. It’s not
true what I told you before. Max never
came back to see me. He had no more
use for me.

“So I wrote to Jorge, and when he
told me he was coming over to avenge
Asunción's death, I was happy . ..

“When he was in England, he wrote
and said he could not find Max, so I
told him of a girl who would help him.
It was as though Jorge was my gun,
and I was aiming it at Max's filthy
heart. And then it happened . . ."

Martin remained silent, waiting.
Closed windows softened the noise of
honking horns; footsteps and a mur-
mur of voices filtered into the room
from the hospital corridor. Maria Cin-
tron's eyes remained closed, but her
voice picked up the thread where she
had left off and continued to weave her
strange tale.

“I do not expect you to believe this,"
she murmured, “but it is true. One
night I prayed that Jorge would suc-
ceed in killing Max. I had not prayed
for a long, long time—and that night
I prayed that a man should be mur-
dered!

*But somehow my prayer changed,
somewhere along the way. It was as

though I were suddenly being forced
to hear myself and see myself, and I
realized that my corrupt flesh had cor-
rupted my soul. I prayed then, earn-
estly and fervently, for forgiveness . . .

*When I spoke to you, it was part
of purging myself. And I welcomed my
illness as punishment; and I hoped I
would die. For I knew that Max had
been murdered, and I thought that I
was doubly guilty. I thought I had
made one man a murderer and an-
other man a corpse."

Martin shook his head. “It isn't the
one who loads the gun who is guilty of
murder,” he said quietly. “It’s the one
who pulls the trigger. That’s the law.”

“There is a higher law.”

“But there are no detectives needed
there to try to establish the facts. The
truth is known; and judgment is sure.
Here, however, I do my best to learn
the imperfect truth, so that an uncer-
tain judgment can be made. Will you
help me?”

HE nodded.

“In the last letter you got from
Jorge Sarria,” Martin began, “didn’t
he ask whether you had seen Kassel?
And wasn’t this written after Kassel
had been murdered?”

For a moment Maria Cintron seemed
puzzled. Then she said unhappily: “If
he had written it as you say, and if I
had kept the letter, this would have
proved him innocent, wouldn’t it? But
I never keep letters; and I don’t be-
lieve he asked whether I had ‘seen’
Max. I think he asked whether I had
‘heard anything’ about him. And I had.
Pd heard he was murdered. So I
couldn't be sure if Jorge was using this
way to tell me he had killed Max, or
simply that he couldn't find him."

*But you told me you didn't be-
lieve Sarria had committed the crime."

“T still don't."

“Why not?"

“Because a Spaniard does not avenge
his family with a gun. He uses a sword
or a knife.”

The süreté detective shrugged.
“What difference does the weapon
make?”

“Still the practical man, aren’t you?”
she said with a faint smile. “To us
there is a difference. You can hide
somewhere and kill a man who doesn’t
see you, with a gun. But with a knife
or sword, he must see you and know
why he is going to die.”

And that was as much as Martin
got from Maria Cintron. He under-
stood what her plight had been—not
certain whether she had been partly
responsible for Kassel’s murder, yet
certain that she had to speak the truth
and let it lead where it would. If Sar-
tia had committed murder, then so—

in her own mind—had she. She wanted
to know this.

A considerable number of people
wanted to know, too. Inspectors Sharpe
and Belin, closeted together in the
latter’s office at Süreté headquarters,
listened first to Martin's summary of
his interview with the prostitute Maria
Cintron. Both officials agreed that this
left the case hanging on a confession,
and that getting one would be tough.

Since Vernon was English and Suzy
Preston was French, the interrogation
was to be split up accordingly. At the
last minute, Inspector Sharpe took out
the star-sapphire ring that had been
found on the dead man, and he asked
Inspector Belin whether the inscrip-
tion had any particular significance.

Belin smiled. ^It's a French saying,"
he told the Englishman. “Je taime,
plus que hier, moins que demain. It
means: I love you now more than I
did yesterday and less than I will to-
morrow. Since all this won't fit on a
ring, ‘more than yesterday’ suggests
the rest.”

HARPE explained the circumstances
under which he had found the ring,
and then he said: “Kassel had a small
hand, and the ring was too large for his
finger. Besides, the mounting indicates
that it’s for a woman. I believe it will
fit the Preston woman. Will you have
her try it?”

“Of course,” said Belin, pocketing it.

At that moment, nothing could have
seemed less important.

The questioning of Robert Vernon
didn’t go well. On the surface he
seemed to be a timid, docile man, but
he proved to have the strength of a
strand of steel. He could not be har-
ried into answering questions quickly.
His voice never wavered. And he had
a maddening habit of talking inter-
minably about things that had nothing
to do with the case.

“When did you last see Max Kas-
sel?” he was asked.

“Who remembers dates?” he said
with a shrug. “All I remember is go-
ing to his shop. Jimmy Alison was
around—now there's a helluva nice
bloke, plays a good game of cribbage,
he does, and it ain't often I gets to
beat him. Anyways, that day he and
me and Melvin—that's the only name
I ever knew he had—well, the three of
us was playing cribbage . . ."

On and on it went. The typewritten
record of the questioning of Robert
Vernon, single-spaced on legal-sized
sheets of paper, ran 11 pages and con-
tained not one contradicted fact, nor
one bit of information that was new to
the investigators.

Even when he was confronted with
the testimony of several girls who

95

96

worked for him as prostitutes, and who
swore they had heard him voicing his
hatred of Max Kassel, Vernon just
brushed it off and said that if he killed
everyone he hated, “London would be
up to its neck in stiffs."

Asked why he had left England
without notifying his parole officer,
which meant automatical that he
would be returned to serve the rest of
his term, Vernon replied: “You take a
chance crossing the street, too. If Al-
lard hadn’t been murdered, I’d have
been back in jolly old England before
anyone missed me.”

EANWHILE Inspector Belin was
having more luck with hot-tem-
pered Suzy Preston. From the start she
admitted things which, while not imme-
diately bearing on the murder, were
highly significant and damaging. She
made no bones about her “marriage of
convenience" but defended it by saying
it wasn't a crime. It was Max Kassel
who had arranged it; and she had al-
ways known this to be his real name.
So, she claimed, had Vernon.

"Didn't you belong to Max the
Shark?" asked Belin.

*[ don't belong to any man!" she
snapped.

*Oh, he didn't go for you?"

The barb was deítly placed. Suzy
glared at the inspector and burst out,
*He'd have given me the moon if T
wanted it. You think he arranged my
*marriage' just so I could work? Don't
be a damn fool. He wanted me where
he could get his hands on me."

“What about Vernon?”

“What about him?” she parried ner-
vously.

“He had his hands on you, too.
What did they do, take turns?”

She shook her head.

“Both at the same time? I can’t be-
lieve that!”

Again she shook her head.

“Speak up, Suzy!” cracked Belin.
“How did you divide your affections?”

“It was mostly Max," she whim-
pered. “Robby just kept after me un-
til»

“Until he killed off Max!" Belin
broke in. "Isn't that it?”

*Don't put words in my mouth!"
Suzy wailed unhappily.

Belin, noting that she hadn't denied
what he had said, shrewdly switched to
another approach. He played up her
undeniable appeal, sympathized with
the fact that she probably always had
men fighting over her, and it certainly
wasn't her fault if that kind of thing
led to trouble.

“Except,” he went on smoothly, “if
you don't tell us the whole truth and if
it turns out that you knew about the
murder, you'll be as guilty as the per-

son who committed the crime. If he
hangs, so will you."

Belin let his fingers circle the girl's
graceful throat, and although he didn't
touch her, let alone put pressure on
her, she swallowed hard and had trou-
ble breathing. The rouge on her cheeks
stood out vividly against the pallor of
her skin.

*We know a woman was present,"
Belin continued, “when Kassel was
lured to his death. And we can identify
her."

"How?" Suzy Preston barely was
able to force the word from her lips.

“Let me tell you the whole story,”
said the French inspector, smiling
pleasantly as he pieced together his
imagined reconstruction of the crime.
“The Shark was giving a ring to this
woman, and he had it specially in-
scribed. He was in a hurry for the
engraving because that night he had an
appointment with her, in her room.
What he didn't know was that another
man was waiting in the room, waiting
to kill him.

“And what the man who killed him
didn't know was that Max had the
ring with him, the ring that will fit the
finger of the woman for whom he had
it made."

“He didn’t!” burst out Suzy Pres-
ton. “There was no ring!”

Belin didn’t bother pointing out to
the girl that she had betrayed herself.
He simply held out his left hand, palm
up, and said: “Give me your hand."

HE didn’t have the strength to lift
it up; so he seized it and, reaching
into his pocket with his other hand, he
took out the ring. He slid it on her
finger. It fitted perfectly.

“But we looked through his pock-
ets!” Suzy moaned. “He didn’t have
it with him!”

Belin eyed the girl appraisingly. Was
she upset because the ring linked her
to the murder—or because she wanted
it and hadn’t gotten her hands on it?
There was sharp irony in the fact that
she and Vernon had searched for the
ring and had failed to find it because
it was in such an obvious place: on the
dead man’s finger. Had he worn it to
the girl’s apartment so that he could
flash it before her as soon as he en-
tered? Or had he slipped it on when
the fight started, hoping it might help
him cut Vernon up? That much would
never be known.

The French inspector’s voice was
now crisp and impersonal. He told Suzy
Preston that she had 60 seconds to
make up her mind. Either she would
tell everything she knew or be prose-
cuted with Robert Vernon for murder.

The prostitute talked. She admitted
that Kassel had come to her apartment

as he was accustomed to doing when-
ever he wanted to; but her affections
had already been transferred to Ver-
non, who had been living with her for
a short while. Kassel, in his attempt
to win back her favors—in this weird
struggle between two pimps for a pros-
titute—had had the star-sapphire ring
made for her. i

“September is my birth month,”
Suzy explained, “and the sapphire is
my birthstone.”

Unmoved by this sentimental ges-
ture, however, Suzy had told Max that
she “belonged” to Vernon. The two
men then fought over her, with Ver-
non managing to club Kassel into sub-
mission. He dragged the limp body out
of Suzy’s flat, and that was the last
she saw of Max the Shark. She herself
“had a few drinks” and went to sleep.

Several hours afterward, Vernon re-
turned and told her only that they
were going on a trip “for his health.”
She had read of the murder in the Paris
newspapers.

When Inspector Sharpe got word of
the French girl’s confession, he imme-
diately broke the news to Vernon and
made it clear that his neck was in the
noose. The man’s only chance for clem-
ency, and a slim one it was, rested in
his making a complete confession, too.

Vernon refused to believe that his
mistress had talked. He thought it was
a clumsy attempt to trick him into
confessing. '

So Robert Vernon and Suzy Preston
were brought face to face, and the en-
counter between these two—diligently
recorded by a police stenographer—
makes strange reading. It hardly be-
longed in criminal annals.

HE pair faced each other in that

small room, where the eyes and ears
of six police officers were focussed on
what they were saying, and for a mo-
ment they stood silent and motionless.
Then, as though Vernon had learned
all he had to know from.the anguished
expression on Suzy Preston's face, he
said aloud with remarkable calm: “It
don't really matter. I've been a bloody
mess since I was born."

The remark caught the French girl
off guard, and in a torrent of remorse
she burst out with a passionate dec-
laration of love. In its intensity it em-
barrassed the police officials in the
room, but neither Vernon nor Suzy
Preston seemed aware of the others.
Not, that is, until they tried to be to-
gether and found themselves restrained.

Then Suzy twisted her head and bit
the hand that was holding her. With
that she was free, and she flung herself
upon the small, stoop-shouldered man
with half-strangled cries of love and
remorse. And Vernon, who could hard-.

ly have been cast as a great lover, so
poor was his physical appearance, em-
braced her with his one free hand and
somehow managed to comfort her.

Afterward, he too confessed, know-
ing as he did that he was doomed to
die. He seemed almost to desire death.
He insisted that he alone was guilty,
that he had taken Kassel in a borrowed
car to a spot outside London, and that
he had cold-bloodedly emptied the
Mauser into his victim. His statements
were so completely damning that there
could be little doubt that he was weav-
ing his own shroud.

He revealed that he had driven off
after the shooting, but upon reflection
he had decided to return, empty the
dead man’s pockets and transport the
corpse farther away from London in a

desperate attempt to conceal his crime
a little longer. On the way from Eng-
land to France, he had dropped the
murder weapon into the Channel.

Vernon’s trial at the Old Bailey in
London during April of 1936 was not
a long one, nor were any sensational
new disclosures made. Yet it received
enormous publicity in the French and
English press because details were
made public for the first time on how
prostitution rings were operating, par-
ticularly where “marriages” were ar-
ranged for the purpose.

Vernon was hanged on September
11, 1936. Suzy Preston was paid well
for telling her story to European jour-
nalists; but when that money ran out,
she returned to her old profession.
Then she vanished from sight for many

years and was forgotten in the turmoil
of World War II.

On March 11, 1955, the body of a
middle-aged woman was discovered in
the woods near Goderville in France.
She had been strangled to death. Suzy
Delatour Preston had lived through
one murder, only to die in another. To
date it has not been solved—there
aren’t even any suspects. The slaying
is considered to be just the end-prod-
uct of a drinking bout.

Ironically, the slaying of Suzy Pres-
ton in itself received little play in the
French newspapers. It was just a good
excuse for the re-telling of a more
interesting murder: that of Max Kas-
sel by Robert Vernon, when Suzy
Preston’s body was still very, very
warm. ***

97

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